


The Truth of the Champion

by Otheliame



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Action & Romance, Adventure & Romance, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Because this IS Fenhawke, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Carver has PTSD, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rewrite, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Sometimes red bc variety is the spice of life, Trauma, but not really it's more of a written playthrough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2020-09-27 03:56:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20401288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otheliame/pseuds/Otheliame
Summary: The events of Kirkwall in the last decade had rocked the world, from the brink of war between the Qunari and the Free Marches to the shatter of the tensions between Mages and Templars that led to a chain uprising across Thedas, and it all seemed to originate in Kirkwall. Arwen Hawke just barely escaped the Blight in Ferelden, at a cost, and at some points seemed to be the only power in the city holding it together.So how does a Ferelden refugee rise to be the Champion of Kirkwall?___This is my rendition of the events of Dragon Age 2, using my own Hawke (Purple primarily with some blue and red thrown in there once in a while) and how the world blew up. I just really want to write this story, tell the story from Hawke's perspective and the tales of each of his companions from how I perceived them. If you have suggestions or ideas on how to make this better, let me know, but for now: Enjoy!





	1. Escape from Lothering

_ Varric's head spins as the armed men drag him down a dark corridor, the light of the burning torches illuminate nothing but his own feet dragging on the worn, uncertain cobblestones that pave the floor. He can’t begin to fathom how this situation occurred, how fast everything was; one minute he was minding his own business in the Hanged Man - his center of normalcy - then the next thing he knew he was getting intercepted by men in armor he’s never seen before; at first he thought they were templars, but the sigil is all wrong, it’s a Chantry-like sun with an eye in the middle, which is nothing Varric has encountered in the past. He was being perfectly civilized, asking for them to return later because he is in the middle of a very important game of Wicked Grace, but apparently that qualifies as “resistance” to them because next thing he knew he was being arrested and dragged from the bar to the makeshift Chantry in Lowtown… where the Qunari compound once was. No Mothers are within, no worshippers either, which is strange considering recent events, but Varric also didn’t get a good look either as he was too busy getting man-handled… or rather dwarf-handled… through the stony halls to a destination that he could only guess. A part of Varric regrets leaving his beloved Bianca in his room, but it would have been worse if she was apprehended by whoever these thugs are. The last thing he needs is for someone to see her and try and replicate her design.  _

_ The trio turn a corner and the guards thrust him into a dark room, seating him in a lone chair in the center with a light shining from a window onto the seat, a natural lamp cast only upon himself. Varric does as physically commanded with a heavy huff, the guards that held him moving to stand on either side of his chair to face the door they just entered like sentries. Varric shakes his head with a hand on his temple, grumbling passive aggressively, “I have had gentler invitations…”  _

_ His eyes quickly adjust to the darkness and through the shadows of the room he meets the gaze of a stern woman, moving to stand before him. She wears short, cropped hair and a braid circled around her head like a rope and a dark scar on her jawline that matches her foreboding expression. Varric can already tell that this woman has seen some shit and was not to be messed with. Kind of like someone he knows, actually. _

_ She stands just outside of the light on Varric’s seat, her hands resting on the pages of an open book. The illustrations are clear from where Varric sits, his mind immediately begins to turn in a thousand different directions wondering where this could possibly be going as the woman speaks in a heavy Nevarran accent. “I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry.” She looks to the guards who hustled Varric into the room and dismisses them from the room with a curt jut of her chin towards the door.  _

_ ‘... Shit. A Seeker of Truth.’ Varric gathers his thoughts, watching the men leave as he replies in a curious, but guarded tone, “And... just what are you seeking?” ‘It’s got to be Anders, isn’t it? Not this shit again…’ _

_ “The Champion.” Cassandra answers, her voice is demanding and harsh.  _

_ Varric’s thoughts flicker with recognition of the exact situation he was in, looking at the book in the Seeker’s hands, the dark light of her black eyes in the shadows of the stone room. Of course, Anders is long gone and with it the possibility to execute him to try and fix this mess. What the Chantry is worried about is the present, the future, and Anders can’t do anything about that. No… now Varric knows knows exactly what this Seeker wants… but there is no way that he would tell her - he is a dwarf after all - but more important than that, he has no intention of imparting any information about the man she seeks. Not after all he’s been through.  _

_ Varric smirks broadly as he examines his gloves with an air of nonchalance, “... Which one?” _

_ Cassandra retaliates faster than Varric could have imagined to his snark, “You know  _ ** _exactly_ ** _ why I am here!” She advances on Varric with eyes full of such demonic fire thatVarric tenses in his seat and slides as far back as he can. She throws the heavy book in her hands into Varric’s face, square in the jaw, as it falls open in his lap. Before he could recover from the blow a knife appears, pressed to his throat.  _

_ Varric holds his chin high with held breath as the examines the tempest before him. Cassandra fixes her hardened eyes like obsidian upon him and snarls, “It's time to start talking, dwarf. They tell me you are good at it.” With a final jerk she impales the knife into the book, straight through the parchment pages and through the leather backing, nearly stabbing Varric's thigh in the process as she turns away with crossed arms, allowing for Varric to recover from the successive attacks.  _

_ ‘Well damn, alright.’ Varric thinks to himself. ‘Let’s at least see where this is going.’ “What do you want to know?” He asks as he examines the impaled book in his lap, marveling how it went straight through the thick pages and book cover; the Seeker is obviously incredibly strong, but Varric really did not need for her to ruin his book to prove it.  _

_ Cassandra turns back to face him, her hands falling to her sides as she holds to her asserted authority, “Everything. Start at the beginning.”  _

_ Varric stares at the symbol that lay open on his lap, the knife through the heart of the page, and ran his fingers along the dried ink. He remembers first ever drawing this symbol, the Kirkwall Crest, and he remembers the events that led to writing this book he holds in his hands: the Tale of the Champion.  _

_ ‘From the beginning, she says,’ Varric thinks to himself before he smirks, ‘If you’re here because of what I wrote, then I’ll tell you what you expect to hear.’ _

_ So, he begins the story. He retells how the Champion, before coming to Kirkwall, fought valiantly against the Darkspawn Horde as it invaded Lothering alongside his Grey Warden brother, up until the point they were beginning to be overwhelmed because even a Champion cannot defeat the Blight.  _

_ Varric tells this with an extravagant wave of his hands, the familiar smile of storytelling on his broad features, “As the last ogre fell to the swing of his staff, suddenly down swooped a dragon, spitting fire at the horde, and allowing for the Cha-”  _

_ Cassandra cut him off with a brisk gesture, snarling, “Bullshit. That's not what really happened.” _

_ Varric gives the Seeker a condemning look, leaning his elbow on the chair's arm as he pauses his story, “... Does that not match the story you've heard, Seeker?” He gestures to his book, that he had long abandoned on the stone floor at his feet. _

_ “I am not interested in stories, I came here to hear the truth!” Cassandra paces before him, her expression is the opposite of patient as she glares at the seated dwarf before her, his feet unable to touch the floor from the chair.  _

_ “What makes you think I know the truth?” Varric huffs, gesturing to the Seeker with a scowl as she paces.  _

_ Cassandra snaps, advancing toward him again with another snarl like a testy wolf, “Don’t lie to me! You knew him even before he became the Champion!”  _

_ Varric holds up his hands in surrender, lest she take the knife out of his book and stab him with it, he wouldn’t put it past her. “Even if I did, I don’t know where he is now.” Varric slowly put his hands down as the Seeker turned her back on him, safe for the moment. Her hands flexed in fists as he watched her closely. What would she do, knowing he could not reach him? Does she really care about what happened here, or does she just want a poster boy? _

_ She shakes her head after a moment, sighing as she spoke again with a note of exasperation, “Do you have any idea what’s at stake here?” _

_ Varric feels a slight, self-satisfied smirk cross his face as he straightens in his chair, “Let me guess… your precious Chantry has fallen to pieces and put the entire world on the brink of war? And now you need the one person who could help you put it back together.”  _

_ Cassandra turns back to face Varric with a look that he could only describe as raw. Her expression loses its stony exterior as she speaks to a more desperate tone, advancing less threateningly toward him in his seat as she pleads, “The Champion was at the heart of it when it all began. If you cannot point me to him… At least tell me everything you know about the events that transpired here.” She looks at the dwarf with the closest thing to an olive branch expression she could possibly manage for a woman he figured to be less than charismatic. Again, quite like someone he knows. Someone that he wishes had warned him that an angry Seeker was in town looking for Hawke’s past friends. At least the ones who didn’t fallen off the grid when Hawke did. The ones who stayed behind.  _

_ “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make it up as I go?” He asks with a cocked eyebrow, and the Seeker replies immediately and without hesitation, “Not at all.”  _

_ Varric leans back in his chair and placed his fingertips together, contemplating his options. He thought about it for a moment, but he decides that perhaps this would benefit after all. This Seeker isn’t just a mindless puppet of the Chantry, that he could tell; if she were, then she wouldn’t even be asking for his perspective on how everything went to shit. She would torture him or something equally horrible to get him to disclose Hawke’s location and Hawke’s location alone. But she seems to believe him when he said that he didn’t know, which is a relief. The last thing Hawke needs is another problem to fix.  _

_ So perhaps this is his chance to get the gritty details right. Set the record on the straight and narrow. Typically not something that he would do, but… for Hawke, he’d do just about anything, even fight a dragon. Which he did.  _

_ Varric finally speaks with a wry expression, “You’ll need to hear the whole story.”  _

...

My lungs burn with each footfall, splattering mud across the road, across my clothes. I cough as we clear the last of the smoke, sprinting through the back path from our home village… one we now have to leave behind. Bethany and Carver are sprinting just ahead of me led by Asfaloth, our family mabari, all splattered in mud in our flurry to escape. The darkspawn’s horrid breath was right on my neck but five seconds ago, and my hands are shaking where they cling to my staff. I count our heads, one, Carver, two, Bethany… Where’s…?

I turn around just in time to find Mother falling to her knees, the hurlocks but a yard or two behind, right on her heels. 

Bethany acts faster than I can think, and I heard her call out a warning to Mother as a wall of flame suddenly roars behind her, incinerating two of the darkspawn right on the spot with a horrible cry that befit those of demons. I let out a gasp of relief and race back to Mother’s side right as one of the darkspawn breaks through the flame, screaming like a cat out of hell. I swiftly hit it as hard as I can with the head of my staff on instinct. Its bones made a sickening cracking sound on impact, and the monster crumples, rolling down the slight incline and into the flames that torch its corpse as it rolls away.

Another darkspawn following breaks through as well, flames clinging to the monster's shambling armor. I take a shaky breath as I right my staff to defend Mother, but Carver arrives just in time, leaping from a rock on the side of the path and bringing down his broadsword to dice the fiend. 

We all stand silently to catch our breath, frozen in stance as the remaining bundle of darkspawn flounder behind the flames. They’re apparently smart enough to figure out that  _ through _ the flames isn’t going to work. We have a few moments to breathe until they come up with a way around. 

Bethany stoops and helps Mother rise to her feet, even with Bethany's wall of flame holding off the remaining darkspawn I can’t keep my eyes off of them, just in case. Eyeing the flames, I am impressed with Bethany’s ability to concentrate on such a dramatic spell, but pyromancy has always been her speciality. 

Carver breaks the silence after a few moments once we’ve ensured that Mother is standing and unharmed, “I think that’s all of them that’re coming through.” 

Bethany nods, breathless as her chocolate eyes focused from Mother to the wall of flame. I can see the gold licks reflected in her pupils as she harnasses her attention to keeping the fire going, “For the moment.” 

Mother’s expression is exasperated, and she shakes as she speaks with her hands, “Maker save us! We’ve lost it all! Everything your father and I built…” 

I glance at the smoke in the horizon from Lothering, and can’t help but reply with a snort, “At least we’re alive! That’s no small feat.” 

Mother looks up at me for a brief moment through fogged eyes before she sighs, her gaze grazing the mud at her feet with an expression full of morose, “Yes, you’re right.” 

Bethany turns to us, her fingers gripping her staff as if for dear life as she huffs, turning to look at Carver and I, “We should have run sooner! Why did we wait so long?” 

It’s moments like this that I’m struck by how similar Carver and Bethany are in appearance. The family as a whole had naturally dark skin, like chocolate mixed with caramel, but Carver and Bethany had the same brown eyes, the same eyes Mother has, and the same nose. When they laugh, their faces crease in the same places, and when they frown (which for Carver is far more often), they look like mirror images. Now that they are both frowning at each other, the resemblance is incredibly stark. 

Carver crinkles his nose at Bethany, scowling as he growls in response, “Why are you looking at me? I’ve been running since Ostagar!” 

I turn back to the wall of flame Bethany had conjured behind us. Through the flames I can see the empty, soulless eyes of the darkspawn rushing about like hornets around a crushed nest, and what’s worse it looks like more joined the few that were already there. Two are trying to scale the mountainside beside the flame to reach us without much success, yet some remain swinging their swords through the flame and hissing like frothing bats. They would not fear the fire for much longer.

I turn back to my family and gesture up the dirt path heading south, where we were heading before, “Not to interrupt, but the Blight is not going to wait while we stand here pointing fingers.” 

Mother nods and looks to the twins, enunciating her words with a hand gesture, “Please, listen to your brother.” 

Carver and Bethany’s eyes break apart from their scathing glares and hone on mine instead. Carver swiftly jut his chin in the direction of the path, “Then let’s go, lead on.”

Without waiting further I wave for my family to follow and press forward up the muddy path, the sound of the hissing darkspawn soon fading into the general sound of death in the background. It chills my spine to think of what could’ve happened if we hadn’t left when we did, though it was admittedly a little later than we should have. I notice mutilated corpses along the path, tossed into the bushes like fodder for crows. Their faces are unrecognizable and their clothes are tattered, I don’t look closer to see if it’s someone I once knew.  _ Not now. Not now. Right now we have to get out of here without getting our faces ripped off.  _ I try to make sure that the others don’t see the bodies by walking away from them, but I can tell from the dewy quality in Bethany’s eyes and the hardened distance in Carver’s that they saw them nonetheless.

As we are about to rise to the crest of the hill, a small gang of darkspawn intercepts us. I shout a warning to my siblings, “We’ve got company!” As if on queue Bethany sends a fireball over my head like a thrown slag of magma, incinerating half of the darkspawn before they can get close. Carver rushes in and cleaves another in half, its blood splattering across his armor like splashes of spilled wine. I channel my power through the staff and project force with the wood, sending one darkspawn flying into the others. Their heads clash together like gongs, and their swords clatter to the ground as Carver swept in to finish them off while they’re disoriented. I glance over at Bethany and see fire dancing along her staff and fingertips, lingering from the fireball she hurled.

It’s uncommon in Thedas for a family to have a mage child, as far as I know. Even more so with two in one generation. Of the three children that Mother and Father had, two of us are mages. Granted, that makes sense to me; Father was also a mage and magic is genetic, so… yeah. Genius thinking there. 

Father taught us that different mages have different affinities, or specializations, so when learning magic it is best to work with what you’re naturally good at. Any mage can learn any area of magic… but some are more difficult than others, even more so depending on the nature of the mage. Father commanded the primal forces of nature, lightning, storms, the earth, better than other forms of magic, so it was what he focused to study and improve upon. Bethany received the luckiest gift, I think, which is easy command over fire. Father taught us that mages  _ can _ command  _ all _ the elements but to varying degrees of control, and that fire was the most dangerous because it is harder to master. Bethany never had a problem with it, never but once has anyone been burned by accident by her flames, and that one time was a complete farce just at the start of our training with Father… it was a whole thing. 

Once the darkspawn are dead, we rush past their corpses to the top of the hill, overlooking Lothering and the Kolkari Wilds to the south. The village is burning, I can smell the blood even from this distance and it makes my stomach turn over on itself.  _ Well, there goes everything we’ve ever known up in smoke. Literally. _

“Wait!” We paused in our brisk pace to look back at Bethany as she stalls in the road, setting her stave in the dirt, “Where are we going?” 

“Away from the darkspawn, where else?” Carver grumbles in annoyance as he stops to look at Bethany, glancing back from hence we came for any signs of darkspawn. 

Bethany shakes her head, eyes set on her twin, “But then where? We can’t just wander aimlessly.”

I scoff and reply sarcastically, “Just as long as we wander _ away _ from the darkspawn horde, I’m happy.” 

Mother gives me a sharp look before she turns away, her arms crossing over her chest as I can tell she stops herself from snipping something harsh at me. She once told me that my smart mouth wouldn’t get me anywhere, but I think that my refusal to take things seriously is helpful when it feels like the world is ending. Which is fucking does. After a moment she looks back from where she was staring at the far off burning village and faces us, her expression surprisingly resolute, “We could go to Kirkwall.” 

All I can think of is the horrified whispers and stories from Mother and Father about the treatment of mages and people alike. Next comes from how much of a shithole the place is, it isn’t even in  _ Ferelden. _ I know that Mother and Father originally came to Ferelden from there, but I’d never seen the city itself. Nor did I ever really care to because, again, it sounds like a shithole. I furrow my eyebrows and rest my weight in my left foot as I retort, “Well, that wouldn’t be my first choice.” 

Bethany has the same thoughts, apparently. She looks at Mother as if a nug had sprouted from her neck, her fingers tightening on her staff, “There are  _ a lot  _ of templars in Kirkwall, Mother.”

Mother sighs and wrings her hands in her lap, “I know that, but we still have family there. And an estate.”  _ Who cares about an estate?  _

Bethany turns away with a worried expression… I don’t blame her for it. 

In the eyes of the world, Bethany and I are apostates, mages hiding from the Chantry… from the Circle. Just the fact that we grew up outside the Circle is enough for the Chantry to execute us for being malificarum, and that’s just ignoring the illegal fact that we learned magic ( _ regular  _ magic, not blood magic) on our own as well. So templars, the military arm of the Chantry tasked with watching over mages and ensuring that they are kept properly leashed, have been and always will be a concern for Bethany and I. One false move in front of a templar and we’d be sent to a Circle, never to leave again, never to see each other or our family again. Unless we got lucky enough to end up in the same Circle. But I doubt we would; the Chantry are a bit sick like that. 

But, Kirkwall sounds better than running to Denerim, or Highever. Who knows when the Blight would reach there? And what would we do when we get there? We’ve nothing but the clothes on our backs and the frenzied satchel full of food and some coin Bethany had the sense to grab before our house caught fire.

I think Bethany realizes this as she lets out a sigh and rests her hands on her hips, “Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship.”

Carver scoffs and turns to continue walking down the road, “If we survive that long. I’ll just be happy to get out of here.” 

I turn to follow him, staff at hand when suddenly darkspawn come flooding from the mountainside down upon us, two, four… seven. We rally to protect Mother; when one gets too close I strike it down with my staff, kicking it down the hill. Carver dives almost recklessly forward with his sword flying and quickly I erect a barrier around him, saving him from many harsh blows as he cuts down the darkspawn like wheat. Bethany holds her own, the smell of burning darkspawn is about as delicious as it sounds, and that’s when I hear the clang of unfamiliar metal further up the road. I pause and peer down the path when I spot darkspawn that swarmed from the top of the hill, and they are not sitting idle. They’re swinging their swords and hissing fiendishly, between their gangled limbs I spot their adversaries, two people; a woman with flying red hair and a basic longsword sweeps in a deadly arc, keeping the monsters at bay and a man, much more heavily armored and with a sword and shield which he uses to decimate the darkspawns’ ranks… until a darkspawn sword lash out and rip through the man’s armor, causing him to fall against the rock face, dropping his shield with a gasping expression of horror. Before I can even think to help, suddenly the woman flies out of nowhere and tackles the beast to the dirt with a resonating  ** _“No!”_ ** Her shout is so powerful it causes the other darkspawn to freeze as my siblings finish off the last of the group that matched us. We watch in awe as this ferocious woman punches the monster in the face where she kneels on its chest like this was a bar brawl, and then uses her sword to cut the darkspawn's head off like how a carpenter would saw off a spare end of wood. She snarls with raw, bared teeth, “You will  _ not have him!” _

She leaps to her feet off of the decapitated darkspawn and picks up the man’s shield, and I can hear her from my place up the road, “They will not have you. Not while I breathe!” The five darkspawn circle her and the armored man like vultures, ready to pounce. 

I snap out my delirium and race forward to help. I focus on a spot where the darkspawn are concentrated to attack the woman and injured man, using my hands I magically push them out, sending some flying down the mountainside while sharply ending others’ pillaging careers with a blow to the head, thanks to the rocks along the path. I cast spells against the others, singling them out and causing for their bodies to shamble apart with mental force channelled into my staff as the fierce red-headed woman carves a path out of darkspawn blood. Bethany lets out a shout as she slides past me, her hands illuminated with bright red fire before she jabs her hands out in fists, burning a trail of darkspawn alive and sending them tumbling off the path. Carver rushes past me to join in, his sword raised with a bitter and angry expression, before long the last of the darkspawn fall. Once we’ve caught our breath, together we all approach the pair we rescued to see if they’re alright. 

The red-headed woman is kneeling down beside the man and helping him to his feet, chiding, “Stop squirming, Wesley, you'll make it worse!” 

As the man, Wesley, rises, a chill suddenly came across my spine. Etched into his chest plate and the front of his shield is a blazing, upright sword: the symbol of the Templar Order. 

_ Maker’s fucking balls, we’re fucked.  _

The templar makes eye contact with us and tenses, his hand flies to his sword despite his injury as he snarls, “Apostates! Keep your distance!”

Bethany and I look at one another.  _ Shit.  _ Bethany laments with a dark and bitter expression, “Well, the Maker has a sense of humor; first darkspawn, and now a templar.” She turns back to the man and fixes him with a searching, yet pinning gaze, “I thought they all abandoned Lothering?” 

_ They did. They left us all to die there without any defenses. Just another tally to the reasons why templars fucking suck. _

The man’s eyes are wild and his entire body is ready for an attack as he speaks, despite the grievous injury he had sustained he still carries himself like he’s in charge, “The spawn are clear in their intent… but a mage is always unknown.” I narrow my eyes at him as he grits his teeth, hissing as one of his hands gravitates to the blood smeared across his left side, “The Order… dictates…” 

His fingers tighten on his sword as the woman beside him sighs, hissing at him with an annoyed tone,  _ “Wesley!” _

The Templar steps forward, his eyes lock on Bethany as he snarls with more resolution, “The Order dictates…” 

I immediately step in between them, glaring the man down with a fierce gaze as he pauses in front of me, his hand on his weapon, yet to my surprise he does not move to unsheathe it. I don’t have my staff at hand, not in a threatening manner, but if he were to so much as sneeze I feel confident I could simply mentally hurl his ass down the mountainside with my magic.

While Bethany’s specialization is fire, my specialization is not simple to describe; the term that Father always used was telekinesis. Though fire is more flashy, I find my skillset is perfect for when you’re a hidden, illegal apostate just trying to get by, helping people without them knowing that they’re being helped… Or keeping under the radar that there are  _ two _ mages in my family instead of one. I can make things move by thinking about it, create invisible barriers, and occasionally I can read minds... HA! Just kidding, I wish. However I do get a better sense of people’s emotions because of my power, but Mother always argued it’s because I’m empathetic, not because I’m a mage. Which has some merit, but I find that I have a bit of an uncanny ability to get a sense on someone regardless of how well I know them; it grows to be more and more specified the more I know a person. It’s a strange though, as it does come with some ‘but’s. The people in Lothering are easy for me to get a read on, but people tied to magic, like templars, are harder. Father said it’s because magic requires mental training that only mages and templars have that normal people lack, that I have to practice it when someone knows how to create a mental barrier. I got pretty good at it; I had to be in order for Bethany and I to avoid the templars. Like this one.

Mind reading would be pretty cool right now, but I don’t need it to know this templar would slit Bethany’s throat if given the chance. 

We remain that way for several seconds, tense and staring off, before the red-headed woman speaks again in a gentle manner, “Dear, they saved us. The Maker understands.” 

As the tense seconds grew longer, in that moment I almost regret using my magic to protect scum such as him. The templars in Lothering weren't unfriendly towards us, but after Father told us about his stories from his time in the Kirkwall Circle, and then watching their behavior around anything close to magical, Bethany and I knew that they could never be our friends. We once heard they dragged a boy from the Desmond's house through the streets to take him to the Circle, but when he began to fight back, hurling rocks without touching them, they just... killed him. Just like that, as if his life meant nothing. He couldn’t have been older than ten. I didn’t even know him, but I knew that that could have easily had been me, or Bethany, or Father. And I would never allow them the chance. 

Finally, Wesley’s expression relaxes, as if he’d awoken from a dream. He turns away, backing to stand beside the woman as he replies with a note of regret, “... Of course.”

Bethany and I release a pent up sigh of relief as we briefly glance at one another. This templar isn’t from Lothering, both of us knew them all by name and where they most frequented to avoid ever arousing suspicion. We never had any problems with them personally, a few close calls when we had been practicing magic when they were closer to the area than we thought, but from Father’s stories from Kirkwall’s Circle to the rumors that spiral out of control in taverns deep at night… the stories often tell of templar abuses of mages, some who  _ hunt _ apostates with the excuse that they’re actually malificar, a mage who practices forbidden magic, some torture apostates before they take them back to the Circle, or even just execute them. Stories such as those kept me awake at night for years as a child… Still do. Often ‘malificar’ and ‘apostate’ are seen as interchangeable terms because anyone who dares practice magic outside of Chantry sanction is seen upon the same scale as a mage who learns blood magic to kill and torture people to their own ends. But they’re really not, not in the slightest; what separates Bethany and I from malificar is that we don’t let ourselves fall prey to demons, Father taught us that almost immediately because it’s through demonic promises of power that forbidden magic is learned… chiefly known as ‘blood magic’. That’s the  _ real  _ bad stuff. 

Of course there are hundreds and hundreds of stories of out of control mages. Malificar who sacrifice babies to bring demons to this world through holes in the Fade, there was a whole bit years back about an abomination, a mage possessed by a demon, who almost wiped out an entire town. But the only mages I’d ever known are Father and Bethany. They hardly seem the type… especially not Bethany. She once stepped on Asfaloth’s paw and cried when she apologized.

The woman with red hair then turns to us, her expression is kind yet firm as she addresses our collective, “I am Aveline Vallen, and this is my husband Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we are safe from the horde.” 

I step forward and fix the templar with a raised eyebrow, “Strange time to be hunting apostates. His fellows left with the Chantry priests.” I realize only after it’s probably not the best idea to continue to prod the templar, but it seems his hand is being stayed by his wife. Honestly, I fear her way more than him after she fucking scissored a darkspawn’s head off like a butcher. 

The Templar rests his hands on his side, pressing against a wound there. It was bleeding, though it seems to have stopped for now, but it obviously causes him a great deal of pain as he speaks with a hitch in his voice, “I was traveling to Denerim on business for the Order, but… I had to turn south when I heard of Ostagar.” He regards his wife then with a fond expression. 

Aveline stared back at him pointedly, “Bad luck - and judgement - brought us together here before the attack.”  _ Ah. So she was a soldier down at Ostagar too, like Carver. _

Bethany was tense throughout the entire exchange, after a pause she steps beside me to speak in a low tone, “The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages, so lets not dwell upon it, shall we?” It’s pointed at me, but everyone in our vicinity can hear her clearly.  _ Shut up about it or else you might change his mind.  _

Aveline eyes Bethany with an analytical eye, “Wise girl.” 

“You know, for a while, it looked like we were the only ones to escape the darkspawn horde.” I murmur, raising an eyebrow at the two before me. Now that I think about it, Aveline’s accent sounds less Ferelden and more Orlesian. Not as posh, no, but it had that light and airy lilt that Orlesians have. Wesley was clearly born and raised in Ferelden, but Aveline? Less obvious. I was more interested to hear how such a beast of a woman came to our little happy village… that is now on fire. 

Carver crosses his arms and growls darkly, “We aren’t free of them yet. You didn’t see Ostagar, this is just the start.” His tone is bitter and shrouded, just like when he got home last night and calmed down enough to talk. Like normal, cranky Carver cranked to the maximum. 

Aveline looks at my brother with new eyes, giving him a visual once over, “You were there? Yes, I see it now… Third company, under Captain Varel.” She states her position stiffly, as if she practiced. 

Carver barely glances over her without a change from his usual scowl, “Then you saw how the whole of the army was defeated?”

Aveline shakes her head with a matching scowl, her expression turning into muted ire, “We fell to betrayal, not the darkspawn. This arm of the horde will not have the same advantage.”

I cross my arms uncertainly, eyebrows furrowed, “You two are rather quick to sign on with our merry band…”

Carver merely smiles lopsidedly, “Another blade between us and the darkspawn? Yes please.” 

Bethany bites her lip and looks over at Carver and then at the templar, “So long as the horde is their first concern.”

Wesley replies simply, his hand on his side and his eyes glimmering in the dim morning light, “My duty is clear, but that… is for another day. If we are granted that opportunity.” 

Aveline’s tone was firm and confident, “We will be fine, we all will.” 

I try to ignore the fact that Wesley basically said  _ ‘Oh don’t worry, I’ll hunt you down and kill you later.’ _ But it’s rather hard to do so for obvious reasons. But that is a problem for not right now. If we survived til nightfall Bethany and I could… sneak away or… 

I turned to look at Ser Wesley, whose eyes had not moved from either Bethany or myself. I don’t trust him, not as far as I could throw him, but Carver’s right. Another sword will be of help to us, and I’d love for Aveline’s sword to help uds. Even though she brings a rather badly injured templar; I don’t see him as too much of a threat unless he were to limp really close to Bethany or I. But Aveline; Aveline is an asset that we can’t ignore. 

So I narrow my eyes at the templar and speak in a low, threatening growl, “I'm watching you, _ templar.” _

“And I, you.” Wesley snarls back at me.  _ Ah, so he must seen me use my magic. Well, cats out that bag. _ With a turn on a coin he glances at his wife with a softer expression, “... But right now, we have bigger concerns… so long as there is a greater danger, you and I have an accord.” 

I frown and glance back at Bethany, who meet my anxious gaze before she looks at Mother, who watches the exchange silently from behind us, worry etched into the lines upon her face. “Thank you, Wesley.” Aveline murmurs in a warm and gentle tone before turning to us with a brisk, and matter of fact demeanor, “For now, we move with you. North is cut off, we barely escaped the main body of the horde.” 

Carver's expression falls almost immediately as he cries in exasperation, “Then we're trapped! The Wilds are to the south, that’s no way out!” 

I shrug, turning to look at him, “If our options are ‘south’ or ‘die’, I will take my chances with south.” I pull ahead of the rest of the family, marching past Ser Wesley the Templar with narrowed eyes and return us to the path, taking the branch to head south. There was no way that this evening is going to end happily; we either get eaten by darkspawn, which obviously sucks, or Bethany and I get skewered by the templar. which would be kind of embarrassing... or we act in self defense. I don’t want it to come to that, especially because of Aveline… but I’ll do anything to protect my sister. I tighten my hand on my staff. 

We walk briskly, Aveline marching beside Wesley as Carver and Bethany sandwich Mother, Asfaloth kept his ears to our backs. Maker, what a great mabari, I love him with all my heart. 

I’d been only 9 when a kennel master came through Lothering and Asfaloth imprinted on me as a small pup. He refused to leave my side, the kennel master sold him to us for three sovereigns… albeit angrily. _ ‘He's useless now, he won't follow orders, perfect waste of a good mabari!’ _ He’d cursed up a storm and left, but ever since then Asfaloth and I have been inseparable. I consider him as much blood to me as Carver and Bethany, and he’s at least as intelligent as Carver. 

Asfaloth makes eye contact with me and he visibly relaxes. I can tell the escape from Lothering has him shaken, as neither of us had ever been in real fight like that before. He has blood caked into his fur, but judging by his gait it’s darkspawn blood, not his own. Still, I resolve to make sure with my dying breath that my mabari will make it out of this alive, along with the rest of my family. I wouldn’t shed too many tears if Ser Wesley died along the way, though.

We ran into two skirmishes as we headed toward the Wilds, neither of which were much trouble now that we had Aveline. Although, Bethany and I both felt that our powers were… weaker. After the first bout, we looked at one another and realized that it wasn’t just one of us, we both felt some sort of… suppression. It wasn’t impossible, but casting spells required more thought and initiation than normal.

I think it’s because of the nature of templar magic that Wesley possesses. I had never thought that templars could actually do that, though it makes sense that he could; they are magehunters after all, they have to have some sort of edge to be viable. When I look at him after the last darkspawn falls, I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Was he making us weaker so it was more likely we’d fall to the darkspawn and save him the trouble later? I shiver at the thought. He seems oblivious however, his expression is only ever pained or distant, his hand only ever holding his side. He’s started limping. I try not to think about what that will mean for Aveline.

As we near the edge of the Wilds, I feel confident that the darkspawn are behind us, as we hadn’t encountered any for at least a quarter of an hour. I forge ahead with Asfaloth, Aveline, and Carver over the cusp of a rocky hill right as I spot the treeline that marks the beginning of the swamps. But, before I can get too excited, the ground suddenly begins to shake. I plant my staff in the ground to hold myself upright as we all tremble for impact, then I hear what sounds like trees breaking and foliage being ripped. I look up with wide eyes right when a furious ogre comes charging towards us from the Wilds, breaking the trees in its wake with nothing but blood and murder in its eyes. It’s the biggest monster I have ever seen, standing taller than two men easily with massive, curved horns out of its thick skull and a leather harness around its chest that has skulls and leather pelts hanging from it like trophies. 

I have never been so terrified in my life. 

I dive out of the ogre’s path to avoid getting trampled, Carver and Aveline doing the same as it nearly plows over us before it comes to an abrupt stop, stamping its fists into the ground with a furious roar.

As I struggle to rise, and that’s when I see the ogre’s eyes are locked on a stoic Bethany, standing her ground between him and Mother with her staff raised. Fire licks her hands and burns in her eyes as she prays aloud, “Maker, give me strength!” She slams her staff into the ground and from it arose a mighty ball of flame, she holds her hands aloft and hurles it at the ogre. 

The ogre is so much faster than I could’ve dreamed for a beast that size. It rolls to the side to avoid the fire blast before it lashes out and snatches Bethany, slamming her body into the ground. 

I scream,  _ “BETHANY!”  _ I extend a hand and use my telekinesis to punch the fucking thing in the nose with all of my mental strength, I can barely hear Asfaloth barking over the blood rushing through my ears as my friend charges the beast without fear. The ogre roars and tosses her body aside as it held its face from where I struck it, to my horror, I can see blood is soaking into Bethany’s clothes and is already pooling in the mud. She isn’t moving. 

The ogre turn to me and Asfaloth with ferocious, furious eyes and lower its horns for a charge. 

Carver and Aveline recover their wits and charge the beast, as Asfolath bites into the monster’s tendon in its ankles. Carver’s broadsword embeds itself in its thigh as Aveline strikes the monster in the face with her shield to daze it. I can hear Mother crying out Bethany’s name, I glance over to see her rushing to Bethany’s side. I form a protective barrier around them before I focus back on the ogre. It swipes a hulking hand at Aveline and Carver like nuisance gnats, bloody spit flying into the dust as the pair of swordsmen dodge out of its reach. I frown and focus upon its head, using my power to knock around its skull, keep it unsure which way is up and which way is down right as Carver rips his blade out of the monster’s thigh, when I mentally grab one of the monster’s horns and twist it to bare its chest he stabs the creature in the heart with a feral yell. It freezes where it stands upright, its body trembling before it collapses to the earth with a final, groaning breath. 

For a few seconds, all I’m aware of was the thud of my heart in my chest and my breath coming in rapid gasps, then the slow trickle of blood coming from my nose. I take a shallow breath as I wipe it away, flinching as my head begins to ache like nothing else, but I can’t think about that right now. I run to Bethany and Mother’s side, releasing the barrier that protected them and practically collapsing on my knees beside them.

Bethany’s face is a mix of blood and mud, which Mother is frantically trying to wipe away with her bare hands as she sobs, “Bethany, wake up! The battle is over, we are fine!” 

Her body is twisted in a way it shouldn’t be, and Bethany is staring unblinkingly at the sky as a trail of blood leaves her mouth. 

Aveline stands beside us with her hands on her sword hilt and a grim expression as she murmurs gently, “I am sorry, mistress… your daughter is gone.” She turns away and begins to examine the countryside around us for signs of darkspawn while Wesley remains, his hand holding his side as he stares down at Bethany with a lost expression. I wonder briefly if he’s pleased that he didn't have to kill an apostate himself. This mere thought makes me want to throttle him into the next age, I have to clench my fists to restrain myself. 

“No! These beasts will not have Bethany!” Mother sobs with a strangled voice, her hands cupping Bethany’s face and wiping the blood with her tattered dress hem. I’m scared to touch her, but I can’t peel my gaze away from her glassy, deep brown eyes. Just like Father's. 

“She died trying to protect us, Mother.” I offer in a soft voice. Carver is expressionless, staring down at Bethany as he wordlessly takes her hand and stays seated beside her, his eyes unmoving from her face. His twin sister.

“I don’t want a  _ hero! _ I want my  _ daughter _ back.” Mother turns her watery gaze from Bethany to me with her teeth suddenly bared and I try not to flinch as she barks, “This is your fault!” I swiftly lower my eyes to the ground, unable to look at Bethany as Mother hisses between sobs, “How could you let her charge off like that! Oh my poor little girl, my sweetheart…” Mother touches her forehead against Bethany’s and sucks in breath through her nose sharply. My heart sinks deep in my chest and it begins to ache, I can’t look at Bethany without my ears ringing. My staff slips from my hand and into the mud, and Asfaloth nudged my side with a whine. I can’t move, all I can do was stare at Bethany’s unmoving hand at her side.  _ She didn’t deserve this. _

Finally, Carver speaks, his voice tight but his expression is hard, “If we stand here weeping, the darkspawn will take the rest of us, too.” I look at Carver right as he looked at me, and for the life of me I can’t tell you what he’s thinking or feeling based on the look in his eye. Bethany and I were always close because we both were tied by our magic, but Carver and I always had a much more strenuous relationship growing up. He was always up for a fight, training to be a swordsman since he was 13, and he would often run away or scream at Bethany or I because of the things we had to do to stay in hiding, because of the dreams of things that he couldn’t do because of us. It caused a rift, between me and between him and Bethany and father, one I don’t think has ever truly been mended. But on this fateful day on the edge of the Wilds, as I stare into his chocolate eyes a little longer I realized that we were bound together as brothers. We weren’t going to let magic leave us divided ever again. Not when it’s just the two of us, with Father and Bethany gone.

That’s when Wesley of all people speaks, his voice is surprisingly tender as he murmurs, “Allow me to commend your daughter's soul to the Maker, mistress.” He bows his head and Mother bows her own in turn, clutching Bethany’s hand as Carver and I sit side by side, watching. “Ashes we were and ashes we become, Maker, give this young woman a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace she has found in eternity.”

Mother opens her eyes after Wesley falls silent and kisses Bethany on the temple. With closed eyes, she whispers softly, "I will never forget you." 

_ We need to move. Now.  _ I turn away, briefly touching Carver’s shoulder and he grabs mine in order to rise. I whisper, mostly to myself, in a bitter tone, “At least Father will have company now.” Asfaloth whines and butts his head against my knee once I stand, but before I can do more than pat his head he suddenly tenses and whirls around, snarling and barking ferociously at the Wilds. Carver and Aveline look at the mabari and swiftly draw their weapons, just in time as darkspawn surge from the Wilds - I count seven - spitting froth like ravenous beasts as they rush towards us, “We’re too late!” Aveline shouts, snapping our eyes to the monsters. She slams her sword against her shield with a loud  _ CLANG,  _ snatching the darkspawn’s attention before she charges the darkspawn, a bare beat after Carver launches forward into the fray as well. 

I focus and erect a barrier around them both as I stand between the fight and Mother, Bethany, and Wesley. I am their barrier. From there, I start to tear darkspawn limb from limb with imaginary, invisible hands to keep them from getting close. I have to grit my teeth as the concentration it takes to do multiple things at once makes my head start to  _ thunder _ and my hands  _ shake. _ Limb after limb, focusing on the fouled flesh and forcing it to tear, rending them apart and keeping Carver and Aveline shielded as they slice through the pack. 

A fresh group of darkspawn erupt from the Wilds, followed by another right as we thought we had this group bested. I feel another trickle of blood drip down my nose as I make a sweeping gesture to send them back with a mental blastwave… I won’t last much longer. Nose-bleeds have always the sign that I’ve overexerted my magic, but it’s only ever happened three or four times in my life. Now it’s happened twice within the span of a half hour. 

Next thing I know, Aveline and Carver are pushed back to my position. Wesley stands beside Mother and Bethany on the ground, his face is pale and his footing behind the two women appears shaky, like he wants to melt into the rocks of the mountainside behind him. Five more darkspawn emerge from the Wilds, joining the mass already present and fear climbs in my throat as my shields falter and a darkspawn’s clawed hand catches on Carver’s arm, causing him to cry out in pain and stumble back with a hand pressing against the bloodied wound. I grab him and pull him to my side, right as the darkspawn who hurt him tries to rush forward I jab it hard in the face with the tip of my staff. The scent of blood seems to drive the darkspawn wild and frenzied, in an act of sheer desperation I hold my hands upright and erect a domed barrier around all of us. 

The darkspawn surround us within my bubble, and Aveline, Carver, and I are completely out of breath. “There’s no end to them…” Carver exhales in a short, labored breath as he holds his arm tightly. His voice sounds defeated, exhausted, like this is a same soup just reheated sort of outlook. Asfaloth barks viciously from beside me, looking ready to launch himself at the darkspawn to protect us but he has enough sense to stay within the barrier. I wince as the darkspawn beat their gnarled fists against the barrier, slamming their decaying bodies against it to try and break through. 

My lungs feel like they’re about to give out like I’ve been sprinting for miles, my arms are shaking as I hold them up but no matter what I keep my full attention and energy on keeping the barrier up,  _ I can’t let it fall, if I let it fall we’re going to die.  _ They have us completely surrounded, Aveline looks at me with wide eyes and I know I must look like I’m about to collapse sustaining the gray tinted barrier, no longer invisible like smoke has bled into my magical power from an overworked fireplace. A darkspawn stabs a sword into the barrier and I fall to one knee as its like a punch to the face, I just barely am able to repel the strike before it can sink into the barrier.  _ No, no, no, please! Okay, looking for miracles time: Maker, if you exist, please fucking help- _

Before we can move, an earth-shattering roar shakes the skies, causing all of us, even the darkspawn, to pause and look at the mountain rising behind us. I whirl and my jaw drops when I spot it; a massive dragon with deep violet scales unfurling its wings, snarling at us down below.  _ As if things couldn’t get any fucking worse.  _

_ The Maker has a sick sense of humor. Fuck, fuck  _ ** _fuck-_ **

It falls with the grace of a hawk. Its wings sweep up a zephyr that causes some of the darkspawn in front of us to fall down the mountainside and toward the direction of the village with a scream. We duck collectively just in time to avoid getting hit as well… but the dragon doesn't attack us as it dives to the ground. Instead it breathes fire on the remainder of the mass that had encompassed us, the heat is borderline singing the front of my face despite how far away it is, it incinerates a pair of darkspawn on the spot, leaving them as smoldering bones on the earth. It lifts several into the air, throwing them down and shattering their bodies on the ground below before it returns to sweep its tail and knock the final darkspawn down a cliff into the Wilds. 

All is still; nothing remains but the smell of burning darkspawn - which is about as delicious as it sounds - and a dragon. Its blood shot eyes now turn to fixate on us and I tighten my grip on my staff, shaken and beaten,  _ fuck it, at least dying while fighting a fucking dragon is something worthy _ . We stand there, staring at the dragon, shaking and breathing heavily, before the strangest of strange things happened.

The dragon start to glow, shimmering with spiraling gold light. It takes long strides towards us as it starts to grow smaller, and smaller, and smaller until it’s the size of a human... until it  **is** a human. An elderly woman more specifically, with white hair twisted back like horns and clad in leather armor with feathers attached to the shoulders, plated boots, and a long black cloak that drags on the ground behind her. She holds a dead darkspawn’s foot in her grasp, dragging it slowly towards us like a cat with a mouse as she continues to eye us with glowing golden eyes, just like the eyes of the dragon. 

My first instinct is to reach out with my mind to get a read on her… something I should have done with Wesley before I started whipping magic everywhere I suppose. Immediately I’m met with deep, unimaginable power, nothing I have ever felt before. If people are ponds, this woman is an ocean, if I was a pebble, she is a mountain. Her golden eyes glitter even from afar as she draws closer until she stops a distance from us, dropping the dead darkspawn she dragged as her voice curdles, deep and throaty, “Well, well… what have we here?” 

Carver and I step forward in front of Mother, who sits protectively beside Bethany. I hear the clank of metal and turn to see Wesley, who was standing beside them, now tremble and fall onto the mud, splattering across his armor. Aveline swiftly kneels beside him to check on his wound. 

The dragon woman’s wobbly voice snatches my attention back to her rather than my falling group, “It used to be that we never got visitors to the Wilds, but now it seems they arrive in hordes!” 

I narrowed my eyes at her and then glance at Carver’s distrusting scowl. I have heard legends about the Wilds, mostly from travelling Chasind, about all kinds of crazy magical bullshit that it’s responsible for, but now for the life of me I can’t remember anything specific. I pull myself fully to my feet, my energy slowly beginning to return enough for me to respond blithely, “Impressive! Where did you learn how to become a dragon?” 

I can feel Carver’s glare on the side of my face but I’m not focused on him. From my limited read on the woman, I could feel she’s filled to the  _ brim _ with magic, she’s definitely the most powerful mage I’ve ever met… which is really only Bethany and Father. I’m filled with a bit of jealosy; it would be boss as  _ fuck _ to learn how to become a dragon,  _ can you imagine? Sweet Andraste I tell you- I could take back Lothering, raze the darkspawn to the ground, maybe even conquer Ferelden.. I guess that’s what the Archdemon does, though, so... I guess it’s all relative. _

“Perhaps I  _ am _ a dragon.” The woman replies in the same throaty tone, her golden eyes alight in amusement. “If so, count yourself lucky that the smell of burning darkspawn does nothing for the appetite.” 

I swallow and glance back at Mother, who is still trying to clean Bethany’s bloodied face, and Aveline, who is taking off Wesley’s breastplate in an attempt to bandage his wound. “If you wish to flee the darkspawn, you should know you are going the wrong direction.” The dragon woman states, pulling my attention back to her just in time to see her turning away to leave. 

Carver steps forward, biting his lip as he suddenly pipes up with a look I can only best describe as puppy-like, “So, you’re just going to leave us here?”

The dragon woman pauses. I watch apprehensively as she glances back at my brother and I, “And why not?” She turns back again to face us, her gold eyes the icing on the cake of her creepy, dragony look she has going for her as they rake across our forms, “I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat?” I start when I see how closely she is watching me curiously, and for a moment it’s almost as if she could inside my head. That’s when I realize she is, flipping through memories, looking around,  _ I’m not protecting myself from this unknown mage like an absolute fool. _ Swiftly I slap up mental defenses and push her out. 

It’s difficult to describe; magic adds dimensions to things that usually don’t, like dreams, thoughts, memories, minds. Everyone’s head is like a house, sometimes I can hear people’s thoughts like they’re speaking because they have no walls on their house, but more often than not people’s minds have doors that you have to open to get into, most of which are unlocked and unwitting if I were to reach out and feel around. Never anything concrete, only emotions, typically how people feel about events in their past that I can usually deduce some things from. As a kid I abused this ability of mine because of my specialization in the field, it comes very naturally and innately to me, I’d read the emotions of other kids and adults to get things I want, but Father quickly schooled me against doing so; it’s an invasion of privacy he says, people’s heads are the only place that people can be themselves without a single fear and it’s important to respect that unless you’re looking for something that might harm yourself or someone you care about. For example, whether someone has ill intent, which Wesley had, and this woman might have. Some people can lock their doors, however, but only people who have some sort of tie to magic typically ever learn, like templars. I learned that quickly, as the templars in Lothering were one of the few people I couldn’t get a read on until I was much older. As I reach out to this woman to see what her house looks like, I find her doors are made of iron and sealed… but not so tightly that I can’t sense anything at all. Her magic is oozing out of it and easily gives me an idea of just how powerful she is, enough that I dare not try to dig around in her head and risk her noticing. 

The dragon woman eyes me with amusement as she rumbles, “But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe, for the moment.” She turns her gaze to Carver, who tenses with his shaky grip on his sword tightening, “Is that not enough?” 

I fiddle with my staff at hand with a cheeky smirk, wanting to draw her attention back to me to keep any potential ire from reaching Carver, “You could show me that trick of yours. That looks useful.” 

The dragon woman laughs deep in her chest, tossing her head back as she crosses her arms, “I daresay it is! Such a clever tongue… for a mage.” She pauses with a stated undertone that confirms in my mind that she  _ was _ digging around in my head earlier, and knows that I was aware of it. I watch her with slightly narrowed eyes, and I feel Carver tense beside me at the mention. “Tell me, clever child,” She purrs, tilting her head downward dangerously as her golden eyes send arrows into my soul, “How do you intend to outrun the Blight?” 

The mere mention of the word sends a chill down my spine.  _ A Blight? Are these darkspawn the heralding of a true-blue Blight? I mean, I joked and called it a Blight earlier, but… oh shit. A full scale invasion, like the old tales? There have only ever been four in history, is it seriously possible a fifth is coming? _

_ Well she’s a fucking dragon. If there’s anyone besides a Grey Warden I can trust to know that there’s a Blight coming, it’d be this lady here. _

Carver speaks up when I fail to, flicking his gaze from me to the dragon woman, “We’re going to Kirkwall, in the Free Marches.” 

The dragon woman raises an eyebrow, betraying her surprise, “Kirkwall? My, but that is quite the voyage you plan… So far, simply to flee the darkspawn.” 

“Any better suggestions? I hear the Deep Roads are vacant now.” I grumble with full level snark, twirling my staff at hand to put it back in its place on my back. I feel another harsh glare from Carver at my side, I glance over only briefly to see him giving me a look that screams  _ can you fucking not piss off the dragon lady? _

The woman laughs, throwing her head back as she does so, “Oh,  _ you _ I like!” The dragon woman chuckles, which makes me wonder if that’s a good or a bad thing. Her expression is slowly becoming more thoughtful as she pauses, and then as she tilts her head to the side she speaks softly as if to herself, “Hurtled into the chaos you fight, and the world will shake before you.” I narrowed my eyes at her, trying to riddle out exactly what the fuck  _ that  _ means when she turns away, talking once again to herself, “Is it fate, or chance? I can never decide.” 

Finally, she turns back towards us as Carver and I share a look of  _ what the everliving fuck  _ and addresses us, “It appears fortune smiles on us both today, I may be able to help you, yet.” 

I scoff without hesitation. “There must be a catch.” 

The woman laughs again, her eyes practically glowing in the afternoon sunlight, “There is always a catch, _ life _ is a catch, I suggest you catch it while you can.” 

_ Cryptic ass…  _

Carver swallows beside me and crosses his arms, turning to look at me with a dark, distrusting scowl, “Should we even trust her? We don’t know who or  _ what _ she is.” 

“I know what she is.” We turn towards Aveline as she speaks up from Wesley’s side, who is, frankly, looking absolutely terrible as he leans against a rock on the side of the road. Aveline continues with a dark look locked on the dragon woman, “The Witch of the Wilds.”

“Some call me that.” The dragon woman responds with a shrug, as if this pretty badass title was nothing, “Also Flemeth, Asha'bellanar,  _ ‘an old hag who talks too much.’” _ She chuckles to herself at the last one, obviously more amused by our suggestion than anything else. Immediately I rack my brain,  _ Flemeth, Flemeth-  _ I’ve heard of her before. She’s some kind of famous Chasind legend, a mage of immense power that may or may not have done all kinds of awful, crazy, and/or cool things, like start the war that led to Ferelden becoming its own country rather than a band of rival tribes fighting each other constantly. If this is  _ that _ Flemeth, which I frankly think it is, based on the mass of magic I felt within her… then we are either extremely fortunate, or extremely not. 

Or maybe she stole the name to make herself look cooler. All seem equally likely. 

Flemeth continues smoothly, interrupting my thoughts, “Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a ‘Witch of the Wilds?’” Flemeth seems to be addressing the group but she keeps her eyes firmly on mine, and that’s when I feel the pressure on my mental defenses. 

I kept them strong, focusing first on reinforcing them before I trust myself in speaking aloud, “You would go through all that trouble to have something delivered?”

Flemeth merely half smiles, looking down at the Wilds with a faraway expression, “I have… an appointment to keep. It is far more convenient this way. Happily, you are not without your own needs.” The pressure persists, but it isn’t with the intention to break down my defenses. I think it’s a test to see just how tough they are. I have a feeling that if this dragon woman  _ really  _ wanted to get into my head, then she can probably kick down my mental doors without breaking a sweat.

I frown and cross my arms, “How much trouble will this delivery be, exactly?” It can’t be easy, I mean, there is no way  _ the  _ Flemeth would ask for me to deliver, what, her laundry? Or would she… A dragon  _ would _ be a bit conspicuous at a laundering riverside.

“About as much trouble as my saving your lives not five minutes ago.” Flemeth responds curtly. 

I huff in concession. “Fair point.” 

Flemeth chuckles again and points a finger at me with gauntlets like claws, “If you knew my daughter, you’d know how seldom often I hear that.” 

I give a moment to wonder what Flemeth as a mother would look like. Could this daughter of hers turn into a dragon too? That’d be so  _ cool…  _ But I can only imagine what kind of parent she must be. Such also arises the question of what brave bastard fucked Flemeth to give her child. Someone tapped Flemeth?  _ Wait, actually… there’s like, three different Chasind stories about that…  _

I glance at Carver and Aveline, who had just finished wrapping Wesley’s wound on his side, and raise an eyebrow, “Should we trust her?” 

Aveline responds in a tight tone, pressing a hand on Wesley’s side, “Wesley is injured… we’ll never escape the darkspawn on foot.” 

Wesley looks up at Aveline with hollow eyes, strangely familiar hollow eyes, and speaks in a rugged, broken tone, “If you need to, leave me behind.” He winces and holds his side, his breath is coming in rapid gasps. I can see his veins are turning blue, bulging from his neck, or rather his skin is becoming translucent in the sunlight with accompanying dark circles are forming under his eyes. Maker’s breath, does he look like shit.

“No! I said I would drag you out if I had to, and I meant it.” Aveline hisses with iron resolution, cupping his cheek with soft eyes as she grips his hand in hers. 

I turn away and look at Carver. His gaze is resolute, I feel his solidarity like a shield, so coming to a mental agreement I look back at Flemeth, “Roast a few more darkspawn and I’ll do what you want.” 

Flemeth throws her head back and laughs again in amusement, smirking at me as she rests her hands on her waist. “Sadly, my charity is at an end.” She continues in a slow, deliberate tone, approaching me and standing closer to me so her words cannot be carried on the wind, “There is a clan of Dalish Elves near the city of Kirkwall. Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari.” Flemeth extends her hand and drops a simple silver pendant in my palm, warm to the touch. I can tell it’s magical in nature, but it’s subdued, like it’s asleep. I take the amulet and put it on for safe keeping as she rumbles, “Do what she asks with it, and any debt between us is paid in full.” 

The amulet thrums against my chest, and I wonder what sort of hellish deal I’ve just walked into. I also can’t help but narrow my eyes and bite my lip in thought because this sounds suspiciously easy.  _ But what other choice do we have if we want to get out of here in one piece? If a true-blue horde of darkspawn and an Archdemon are coming…  _

Flemeth speaks again, turning her golden eyes to someplace behind me, “Before I take you anywhere, however, there is another matter.” I turn to see her eyes are locked on Wesley’s face as he coughs wretchedly, and I can see that it laces blood on his mail gauntlets. 

Aveline bristles, turning to Flemeth with bared teeth, “No, leave him alone!” She stands with her hand on her sword hilt, glaring down this ancient woman fiercely. 

Flemeth’s eyes surprisingly soften as she murmurs, “What has been done to your man is within his blood already.” 

Aveline’s gaze burns like dragonfire, “You lie!” 

Wesley coughs, “She’s right, Aveline. I can… feel the corruption inside of me.” Aveline rushes back to Wesley’s side as he wheezes, cupping his cheek. 

I move to kneel with her. I look down at the blue veins that stick out of Wesley’s throat and the familiar emptiness in his eyes.  _ Their blood must have infected him when they struck him back on the road…  _

He has the blight. 

Not to be confused with the  _ Blight,  _ which is when an Archdemon rises from the ground to lead the darkspawn to try and take over the world, no… the blight is a zombifying disease. Turns people into something like a darkspawn, ghouls with a drive for nothing but spreading their infection. Father used to read me tales about them… I don’t like the fact that they’re real.

We had only just met, Aveline and I, but I feel with growing horror that we are already being bound together by the tragedy of what’s happening.  _ I’m not the only one who was going to lose someone important to me today. _

I can’t find myself willing to look at Mother as she brushes Bethany’s hair with her fingers a few feet away from us, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. 

“Isn’t there anything we can do to help him?” I ask Flemeth, allowing for desperation to slip into my tone. If there’s a way to spare Aveline from this… 

“The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden.” Flemeth responds slowly, and I feel a small surge of hope. Father used to tell us tales of Grey Wardens, flying to battle on the backs of great griffins to defend the world from the Blight. But there were strange armored men yesterday, Teyrn Loghain’s men I believe, who decreed that Grey Wardens killed the king and are traitors to the crown. Honestly, sounded like a bunch of political bullshit, an excuse for Loghain to grab power, and I didn’t think much of it. After all, Grey Wardens are heroes, they don’t give a damn about politics enough to assassinate a king. 

“... And they all died at Ostagar.” Aveline whispers to herself with a pained expression, her eyes glued to Wesley's face as she held his hand. That flicker of hope I had again is smashed into the bloodsoaked dirt.

Flemeth shakes her head, “Not all… but the last are now beyond your reach.” 

Aveline closes her eyes and clutches Wesley’s hand tight, who in turn is looking at Aveline with such tangible love that I suddenly feel plagued with guilt from earlier when I’d thought that Wesley must have felt satisfaction at Bethany’s… death. He’s just human, and I can see that now as he looks to the love of his life for the last time. “Aveline, listen to me…”

“No. You can’t ask me to do this, I won’t!” Aveline’s voice shakes as badly as her hands holding Wesley’s, but her eyes are unwavering on Wesley’s features.

“Please… the corruption is a slow death. I can’t…” Wesley's voice falters as his voice rasps, it’s agonizing to watch. My heart aches on Aveline’s behalf. I can feel her pain as if it were my own, it’s rolling off of her in pulsing waves and it sinks deep into my soul and hangs there like a suspended anchor, swaying treacherously and threatening to crush all beneath it. 

Aveline meets his gaze before she turns and looks at me. She’s fighting back tears. She looks as if she’s begging me to make the choice for her. 

I kneel closer to her and speak softly, looking at Aveline with as much empathy as I can muster, “This has to be done, Aveline. Let me do this.” 

She scans my face for a brief moment before she returns her gaze to Wesley. She presses a small kiss against his temple as I move to kneel beside him, she shifts to allow me to sit but doesn’t move from Wesley’s side. He looks at me with foggy eyes full of surprising warm as he slowly pulls a dagger from his sheath, hissing in pain from the movement before I can just barely hear him whisper, “Thank you.”

Aveline closes her eyes tightly as he presses the dagger into my palm. I try to keep my hands from trembling. Wesley guides the blade to a gap in his armor, pointed at his heart, and Aveline turns her face away as she holds Wesley’s hand. 

I bite my lip and apply hard pressure with a swift surge of strength to make it as quickly as possible. 

With a sharp cry Wesley sucks in his final breath, his head slowly falls listlessly to the side, and he’s gone. Aveline holds Wesley’s hand for a second after before she releases it slowly, touching Wesley’s face before standing with a deeply wounded expression. I want to speak, to say anything to help, but I know that my words would sound hollow. Aveline’s face is completely still, expressionless, made of iron. I turn to Wesley's corpse and slowly close his eyes with my fingertips, taking a deep breath as I do so. 

I’ve never killed anyone before. Never thought about it. Father always warned us that people fear our magic because it can easily be used to hurt others… it seems entirely ironic in some sick, twisted way that I’d just killed a templar with nothing but a knife. It makes me want to throw up, even if it was to fulfill his wishes. I’d done it because I needed to take this burden from Aveline. It’s better than subjecting her to the self-hatred. Better she hate me than to hate herself for this. Hate for someone else is easier to understand. 

“Without an end, there can be no peace.” Flemeth’s voice is soft and ancient, hanging in the air like an ornament as she regards Aveline with a pitying gaze.

Aveline doesn’t acknowledge her or reply, she merely turns away and stares across the mountainside.

Flemeth’s golden eyes reflect the bloody horizon as they slide from Aveline and instead dig into my chest, “It gets no easier. Your struggles, it seems, have only just begun.” 

...

_ Cassandra crosses her arms and looks at Varric with an expression that is, as best as he can tell, incredulous,  _ ** _“Flemeth?”_ **

_ Varric shifts in his chair with a satisfied expression, “I thought that might interest you.”  _

_ “You expect me to believe a myth swooped out of the Wilds to save the Champion?” Cassandra paces before the chair Varric sits in, her armor clinking with each stride she takes. Varric noticed she had a slight limp in her gait. Not like she’s injured… but was, once, in the past. Gravely so. _

_ “Oh come now, Seeker, do I need to recite the Tale of the Warden as well?” Varric smirks cheekily, and he wonders briefly if he’s pushing it with the sass. Cassandra is obviously more than willing and able to rough him up.  _

_ “No… perhaps I should not be surprised at her involvement.” She sighs and rests her hands on her hips, her expression hard as diamonds.  _

_ Varric sighs softly, his gaze is a little lost in sadness as he gazes into the abyss of memory, “Yeah… I liked my version better, too.”  _

_ He can still see Hawke’s eyes, listless with drink and sorrow as he told this tale, the  _ ** _real _ ** _ tale of how he got to Kirkwall years after Varric met him. He hadn’t told him anything at first, only bare details, but it wasn’t until Varric learned that Carver used to have a twin sister that he was able to wrestle it out of him.  _

_ Cassandra shakes her head as if to clear her thoughts before she grunts, “What else aren’t you telling me, then? Did she send someone with the Champion?”  _

_ Varric bites his lip and waves his hand enigmatically, “... In a manner of speaking.”  _

_ Cassandra nods as she murmurs to herself, “So it’s true…” She turns back to Varric and juts her chin at him, “Continue, but if you tell me they flew to Kirkwall on the back of a  _ ** _dragon_ ** _ …” _

_ Varric clucks his tongue and leans forward in his seat as he prepares to speak, “Nothing so fanciful, I assure you. The witch kept her word and got them to Gwaren where they took ship to Kirkwall. They sailed north across the Waking Sea, lashed by terrible storms.” Varric looks off to the side with a lost expression, recalling the times when Hawke mentioned in passing his journey from Ferelden to the Marches. He never sat down with Varric and told him the story from start to finish, he never talked about himself or his past very often for a multitude of reasons that Varric respected, but based on what he had been told Varric’s inner writer was able to piece together the links. “Two weeks they spent in that dark hold, packed in with the fearful and the desperate.” He continues onward with the movement of his hands to enunciate on his words, “Then they saw it: Kirkwall, the City of Chains. Long ago it was a part of the Imperium, slaves from far and wide came in to work in the quarries. Now, it’s a ‘free city’, and I use the word loosely.” Varric scoffs with a dark tone, a glare thrown to the side as some bitterness welled in the back of his throat, “Sail through those black cliffs and you’ll see what the slaves of old saw: the Gallows, welcoming you. That’s where his ship landed, with all the rest.” _


	2. City of Chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Ferelden has got to be one of the hardest things that Hawke has ever had to do, for many reasons that he most pointedly is not going to think about. But, that is not where the Hawke family's troubles end, for there are more problems than just finding a place to hide while escaping the Blight, and those problems are only just beginning.

It felt like we were below deck of the damn trade ship for years when I heard a sailor cry out, “Land Ho, Kirkwall!” Collectively, I could feel a sigh of relief from my companions and damn near every other poor bastard on the ship. Mother is lying still nearby, cradling her head in her hands in an attempt to rest despite the cramped quarters, other refugees from Ferelden lying around us with varying degrees of recovering injury and disease. 

Mother hasn’t looked or spoken to me since we left Lothering on Flemeth’s back. She’d taken us to Gwaren, as she agreed, but the amulet that continues to hang around my neck seemed to grow warmer with each storm-ridden day we neared Kirkwall. It took some coin and convincing, but the Captain agreed to take Mother, Carver, Aveline, and I to Kirkwall. Us and the twenty other sods stuffed in the hold.

Aveline speaks in a soft tone to another refugee nearby, I can hear “Ostagar” and “King Cailan” clear as a bell among the hushed words; they must have also survived the massacre. Carver is leaning next to me on the mast that went through the cargo hold of the ship to the deck, his eyes closed to avoid any more seasickness; the voyage has not been kind on him. There were many storms, and we all smell of vomit and salt. But fucking hell, we are alive. 

I can’t really imagine the horrors Carver must have faced at Ostagar, and his escape from it. He’s been different ever since. Quieter. Ruder. Scowls more. And that’s saying quite a lot because he wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine before. He had left Lothering with a satchel of cheese and bread and the longsword he’d bought with his own coin, boasting about the amount of darkspawn he was going to slay when he joined the king’s army. When he returned, he was haggard, beaten and bruised amd bleeding and scared out of his mind, he had nothing but shredded armor and his sword that he still carries strapped at his side. It was the middle of the night, hours before the darkspawn attacked Lothering. He scared Mother to death as he came in, shouting a million words a beat about what happened in a tone I had never heard in my whole life come from him.  _ “They came out of the ground, they killed the King, Mother, we have to get out of here before they kill us all!” _ He was shaking, looked like he’d been crying, and only after Bethany talked him down were we able to feed him and nurse his wounds. I’d never ever seen him scared before. Even that fateful evening after when we faced down the blighted ogre he didn’t seem as scared as he did when he came home. 

We were packing our things, making arrangements to get out of town by the following morning when other refugees began to pour into Lothering, many survivors of Ostagar, some Wilder and Chasind, and quickly the town was swept into disarray; the town as a whole had no more supplies, there was no way of getting out besides on foot, the templars were long gone save for one, Ser Jerod who tried to dissuade anymore refugees from taking shelter in Lothering before he and the Chantry priests left, the Chantry was stuffed to bursting even after they were gone. Mother had planned on hiring the next cart out of town but that was no longer an option. We were talking about ways we could get us and our belongings out of Lothering when the darkspawn came just as the sun was rising the next day. Asfaloth was at the door of our house, barking up a storm, seconds later Bethany burst back with Carver at her side, they were supposed to have been at the market getting last second supplies. “We have to go,  _ now! _ ” Bethany's voice was shaking and she had blood on her tunic. I’d grabbed a satchel and stuffed it with all the food it could take and we raced out the door just in time for a hurlock to drop a torch on our roof. Bethany ran and got Mother from the barn as Carver and I defended us from the darkspawn before we ran. That was the first time I’d ever used magic as a weapon. 

The long ass boat ride gave me a long time to reflect on our shit situation, but I’m happy that my role was at least more limited than Carver’s.

He had been quiet, except for when he was throwing up or generally downed with seasickness, to which he frequently complained about. He had lost a lot in the last few weeks. We all did.

Carver and Mother shared a deep connection to Bethany that I didn’t really have, despite our mutual apostasy. If we both didn’t have magic, or if only one of us did, I don’t even think we’d been close at all because we were just so different. She never liked or thought my sarcasm to be funny. But what I wouldn’t give to hear her tell me to shut up or shoot me a glare one more time. 

I peer up through the grate above us on deck to see rising cliffs on either side of the ship, a shambling dark brown that cast long shadows across the ship like vultures’ wings. Mounted on them are golden chains mounted upon gold statues, their heads bowed and buried in their hands with those chains around their wrists and gilded loincloth around their waist.  _ I get now why this place is referred to as the City of Chains. _

All I know about Kirkwall is that it was a slave city before the Free Marches rebelled from the Tevinter Imperium… and the architecture remained, it seemed. Oh, and that Mother and Father are from here and moved to Ferelden. They’d only been in Lothering for a few months before I delighted the world with my birth.

It’s a goddamn relief when we finally disembark, but no one is quite as happy about it as Carver. He leaps from the boat onto land before the sailors have even properly docked the thing and kisses the earth, grumbling afterwards how he’s never setting foot on a ship again. Aveline strides off the boat, helping Mother out politely as we walk slowly toward the city gates.  _ Maker, _ is it good to walk again. 

“Look, they’re not letting anyone into the city.” Aveline points and when I look I see a swathe of obviously city guards, they’re dressed in dark brown armor with an orange handkerchief around their necks, all standing in front of the gate. I can see them verbally telling off several of the Ferelden refugees who were on the boat with us with varying angry gestures, I can hear them shouting at each other but the din is too much that I can’t make out words. 

“What? That can’t be!” Mother laments as she watches, her expression grows incredulous as a guard physically pushes away a particular insistent refugee. 

“It’s true. Look at them all.” Aveline’s eyes stray to the sides of the docks, when I follow them I notice many people sitting, begging for coins or passage out of Kirkwall.  _ Fuck. _

“Are we really surprised?” Carver grumbles pessimistically, rolling his shoulders and stretching his legs as he turns to us, “Everyone’s fleeing the Blight, just as we are.”

“And they would all throw us back to the wolves… Unbelievable.” Aveline’s jaw is grit and her expression is hard. 

I jut my chin at Carver in agreement, “It’s totally believable. I’m only surprised they let us dock.” I reply with a low level of sass, too tired to project much more. I watch the guardsman closest to us standing at the gate with crossed arms, obliquely ignoring the shouting of Ferelden refugees to his face. It can’t be fun to do his job, sure, but what downright prick can look at the desperate and stand between them and safety? 

“We need to find your uncle, Gamlen. Our family has always been highly regarded in Kirkwall, he can do something, I’m sure of it!” Mother states firmly, her expression grows resolute. 

Carver huffs, running a hand through his wild black hair as he grumbles, “Let’s hope he received your letter.”

Aveline suddenly surges forward with a determined expression as she watches the guards. There are several loitering about, keeping the peace by their presence I guess, but she points to one nearest to the gate, “Those guards seem to be reporting to that man, let’s go speak to him.” She’s already marching in that direction like a soldier toward an enemy, so we swiftly stepped in line to support her. Best idea as any, at this point. 

We push through the other Ferelden refugees who are shouting at the guards to let them through, and we’re lucky to make it to the man that Aveline mentioned before the other guards noticed us slip by. Before we could even speak the guard, a greasy man with a half shaven beard, he hisses with a narrow eyed look, “Get back into the crowd, you lot! Trying to bully your way through won’t get you into Kirkwall faster!” 

“But you do intend to let us in?” Aveline asked with a cocked head, her tone less questioning and more demanding.  _ Honestly, what a woman. _

“Ha! We have enough poor of our own in the Free Marches! We don’t need you refugees piling up here like a midden’s heap.” The guard curls his nose at us in disgust, his arms are crossed rigidly and I really  _ really _ wanted to break them. His nose, or his arms, whichever. 

“Why aren’t we being allowed into the city?” I ask as diplomatically as possible, which is difficult considering I could tell this man is thick in the skull without even having to dig around in his head. 

He merely waves his arms at me, “If it were up to me, I’d bar the gates and let you find somewhere else to beg.” He scoffs and sighs, rubbing his brow, “But... it’s not. Some of you lot might have legitimate business in the city.”  _ Good thing it’s not up to you then, you piece of shit. _ “So, Knight Commander Meredith wants us to sort you all out. Most of you are getting right back on your ships, though.” 

I frowned as Carver tenses beside me as if we were about to engage in a brawl and frankly I’m right there with him.  _ Knight Commander? _

“That’s a templar title.” I state with narrowed eyes, “Why is the city guard answering to the templars?” I narrow eyes, head tilted to the side to illustrate innocent confusion rather than suspicion. I reach out to him with my mind just in case to ensure that that’s how he’s perceiving it but it’s easy to tell that this guard is non-magical. He’s not even remotely thinking that any of us could be apostates, he’s just generally annoyed by how many people have called him names today. 

“We don’t  _ answer _ to her.” The guard puffs up his chest a big indignantly before he laxes a bit with a gesture to the side, “... But she is the power here in Kirkwall. Don’t know what would happen if the Viscount went against anything she wanted…” The guard remarks to himself, looking at the cobblestones as if considering this for himself before he turns to look back at me, “But he has sure never taken that chance.”

_ The Knight Commander is the ‘power’ in Kirkwall? I don’t like that, not one bit.  _

Knight Commander is the title of the templars who are in charge of Circle towers, all other templars answer to them. They have all sorts of power within the Circle, they are the sole authority of the treatment mages receive within and like anyone who holds power without any checks they tend to abuse that power, and thus their charges. So having a Knight Commander hold any sway over the actual workings of the city is strange to say the least, terrifying to think about what this could mean for me.  _ Hiding in Lothering was hard enough as it is before I knew the templars’ patterns, but in a place where the Knight Commander is ‘the power’?  _

Having heard enough, I cut to the chase, “So, there must be someone in charge that I can talk to?” I’m trying to stay as calm and as patient as possible; the fastest way for us to be thrown out is to raise a fuss like the other refugees around us. 

“Yes, yes, always the same story.” The guard sighs, making my patience and calm all that much harder to compose before he gestures behind him, “If you want in, talk to Captain Ewald. I’m just here to keep you refuse from climbing the walls.” 

I glanced at Carver, who looks desperately like he wants to punch this guard in the face, and try to give him my best  _ please don’t _ expression as we brush past the guard and enter the main gate. Stone walls with grates in the sides show us the grand common of the Gallows, the Circle of Kirkwall. There are more of the golden slave statues inside, the sides of the plaza are ornamented with the chains like bunting flags and I have to say, it’s utterly disgusting. Seeing such… openness about slavery, almost glorifying this place’s history, makes my stomach turn. How awful must it have felt to be a slave in the Imperium and see those horrible things everyday to remind you of how you were bound to another’s whims. To put it mildly. And now to be locked up in the Circle, which honestly can’t be much better… 

“So tell me, how did your family escape Lothering? I thought everyone who hadn’t already fled…” Aveline suddenly asks as we walk, looking at Carver. This isn’t her first attempt to hold him in conversation; they share a bond in surviving Ostagar, but Carver refuses to discuss it. Aveline figured this out, but she continues to attempt to foster a relationship with him regardless.

Carver grumbles in response, “My brother. If he wasn’t with us, I don’t think we’d even be here.” Carver glances over at me almost begrudgingly before turning away, scowling deeply at the ground as if it had done him some injustice. I’m surprised at his answer, honestly. I would have thought without Bethany’s initial warning we would’ve been smoked back at our house, or his own quick thinking in gathering supplies or his timely warning the night before that led us to even thinking about leaving. I just kinda threw around some darkspawn when they showed up. 

Aveline must have thought this, too, for then she said, “But you seem quite skilled as well.” 

Carver shakes his head and hisses, punctuating on his words with bitterness in each one, “I am not my brother.”

Aveline gives up and quiets down as I look back at Carver, but he refuses to meet my eyes.

Honestly, my relationships are kind of fucked up. Bethany and I got along just fine - even if she didn’t get or like my sarcasm - and so did Carver and I when it counted. But the amount of shouting matches, fights and silent weeks we have had indicate otherwise. So often as kids he would blame me for having to hide, for making things harder back home because of my magic, but also because he had trouble being the younger brother. I mean, I can’t help it that my sharp wit and wicked charm is so irresistible, come on, but Carver always took it very personally whenever he was referred to as ‘Arwen’s little brother’ or ‘Little Hawke’ because I generally went by our family surname back in Lothering. We did look alike, except that his eyes are brown like Mother’s and Bethany’s, and mine are gray like Father's. It was the only indicator of our difference until my first growth spurt, at least that’s what Mother always said. 

It didn’t help that Carver never had a good relationship with Father… basically ever. I think it was because of the amount of time he spent training Bethany and I. Once Carver accused him of favoritism and Father spat out that magic is harder to wield than a blade, and Carver stopped speaking to him after that. All the way until his dying day three years ago. He’d told me after Father died that that he thought Father would’ve liked him more if he was also a mage, an apostate, instead of ‘just a swordsman’. One of those weird brotherly bonding moments I guess, very few and far between for my liking.

But in the end we always have each other's backs. I still remember once when we were small, two older children from other families attempted to bully us out of some pocket change for some carnival thing in Lothering that week. Carver, half their age and half their size, told them to bugger off of us and then swung at them. Maker, we got our asses beat, but what a time. 

A set of marble stairs leading out of the Gallows and into Kirkwall come into view, and at its base stands a guard speaking to what appeared to be some sort of mercenaries. They’re heavily armored and very pissed at the guard who stands there with his arms crossed and a tired look on his face.

“We are not animals you can just corral!” One shouts at the guard, finger pointed accusingly at him. 

The guard merely sighs, rubbing his temple as he speaks with surprisingly diplomacy, “We have no intention of keeping anyone here, serah. You're all going back where you came from.” 

“My men and I fought against the Blight! We’re heroes!” The same man replies, his arms thrown in the air incredulously. He has shaggy blond hair that covered most of his features, but I could see purple veins throbbing impatiently, as if he’s waiting to spill blood even if it was his own.  _ Wait, fought? As in past tense? It’s only been two weeks…  _

“Deserters, you mean.” The guard responds tirely before gesturing dismissively, “It doesn’t matter, Kirkwall has no more room for anyone." 

I decide then that we should walk in more publicly as we approached the group so as to not sneak up on the angered conversation and stoke it further, but it doesn’t matter as the deserters keep yelling, “Just let us in, you flaming blighter! We’re not staying in this pit!” The soldier waves his finger angrily at the unflinching sentinel as if to poke out his eyes. 

The guard is unmoving and unintimidated. “Then get back on your ship and leave, Kirkwall has no more room for refugees.” 

“The ship is already gone! We paid good coin to get here!” The deserter’s leader snarls back, growing more and more angry by the minute. 

The guard scoffs, “You and half of Ferelden. There is nothing I can do, the city is full!” The guard finally sighs, turning his gaze to us as we approach. His expression is mixed, when I reach out towards him I can see that he’s wondering with apprehension whether we would be a welcome escape from this angry group of deserters or if we will cause more trouble. 

“Oh, surely there’s a little extra room for pretty people.” I smile charmingly with a sarcastic lilt as the guard gave me a deadpan look. 

“I find keeping my neck away from Knight Commander Meredith’s blade far more attractive than any of you.” The guard grumbles in a frustrated reply, crossing his arms stoically. “We’ve been letting you Fereldens in for months, you're too late, the city is  _ full.” _ He states this with finality, and I can tell we we’re about to lose our last chance to plead if we don’t think quick. 

I fumble for a response but fortunately Carver’s quicker, “But we’ve got family here!” He protests, stepping forward. 

The guard merely shrugs, “I’ve heard claims like that a thousand times already, trust me. We’ll find some ships to take you all back to Ferelden, eventually. Until then, you stay here.” 

I glance at Carver thankfully for the reminder of why exactly we we decided to come to  _ Kirkwall _ in the first place before turning back to the guard, “If you find our uncle, Gamlen Amell, you’ll have a few less refugees bothering you.” 

The guard is visibly surprised, rubbing his chin as he thought, “Gamlen? I know that name…” 

_ Oh thank the Maker. _

“He’s a nobleman here in the city. Our family has an estate.” Carver responds swiftly, helping to jog the guard's memory. 

The guard merely scoffs in response, “Pfft, a nobleman? The Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn’t rub two coppers together.” He sighs and ran a gauntleted hand through his hair as he relents, “Alright, if he comes around, I’ll bring you to him, but until then, I…” 

“What?! You’re gonna let them through?” The deserter leader, who has been standing by with crossed arms up until this point, butts into the conversation angrily, gesturing at us with a wild wave of his hand. 

The guard sighed in exasperation, “I didn’t say anything about-”

The deserter, however, seemed to have made up his mind. He suddenly draws his sword and roars, “We’ve been here for four days, they just got here!”

I hold out an arm to mother and Carver to block them with my body as the guard holds up a hand with the other on his sword hilt, “Serah, I’m going to need you to put down your-” 

The man raises his sword and the other deserters who were milling about rally, drawing their own weapons and advancing not towards the guardsman, but towards us. I count as fast as I can as Aveline and Carver draw their swords when they sense the danger, ten deserters, three of us, six if you count the captain and the two other city guards that stand a distance away, now closing in with their own swords as the situation escalates. For once I’m thankful for the subtle nature of my magic. Throwing fire is hard to hide for a mage, but an unseen force? A little telepathic meddling wouldn't be suspicious to a fellow fighter or onlooker. I place a barrier around Aveline and Carver to protect them, a small one that winds tight around them so any blows would seem to glance off their armor, before I focus on making the deserters’ swords. Making them just a little heavier, harder to wield, harder to swing, ensuring they’re slow and clumsy. This makes easy pickings for Aveline, Carver, and the guardsmen who rush in to knock out the deserters. Those that rush towards me I knock aside with my staff and shove with a little extra force away from me. I have never had to use magic as a defense before, not in a mortal danger sort of way at least, but then the darkspawn came and oh boy did I learn!

Once the deserters are either unconscious or incapacitated, the guard captain sighs and sheathed his sword, wiping the blood off of his face, as the two guardsmen run around and shackle them now that they’re unconscious. “Unbelievable.” He huffs with an annoyed roll of his eyes, like getting ganked by a bunch of deserters was a mild inconvenience to him. I have to say I’m a little disgusted at how little he values nearly taking those men’s lives; he’s returning to business as usual as soon as they’re out of the picture, a few have bleeding wounds that if not treated soon will probably kill them. I wonder if the guard even cares about that. 

One of the guards who ran to our aid rushes to the original, “Captain, are you alright?!” 

“I am, no thanks to you, where is everyone? Go find them. I want this kept under control!” The captain orders and dismisses the man with a gesture, who scurries off toward the initial gate from Gallows onto the dock. Finally, the captain turns to us with a respectful nod, “You have my thanks for your assistance.” He sighs and shifts on his feet, getting back to the subject at hand, “Look, I can’t get you into the city. It’s not my decision. But I will get your uncle and bring him here.” With that, the captain turns away and marched up the steps and into the city, leaving us with the guard, dragging away the barely-conscious deserters while leaving the unconscious ones on the ground to be dealt with later.

I turn to my family and Aveline, shrugging as I smile lopsidedly, “Well, that was easy! Shall we find a nice dusty corner to squat in, in the mean time?”

“Shut up, Arwen.” Carver grumbled, though I’m delighted to hear that it’s rather light hearted. At least for him. 

...

As it turns out, we hung around the Gallows courtyard for longer than a short squat in. Three days later we’ve eaten the last of our food and have begun seriously considering begging. We had sat and milled in the area as Ferelden refugees came in daily to yell at the guards to let them in, before inevitably leaving, some a little more forcibly than others. A few stayed in the area of the courtyard, like us, but they kept to themselves. We mostly tried to stay out of the sun so that we wouldn’t get burned and attempted to stave off boredom. I spent that time talking to Aveline, asking about where she came from etc., and playing games with Carver. We stuffed one of our small pouches that used to contain our coin with dirt and sand that was lying out in the courtyard and played hacky-sack, we even got Aveline in on it by day two. Mother was despondent, spending most of her time attempting to trade with the shopkeeper in the square or sleeping in the shade on top of our empty bags as some comfort from the ground. I tried to make sure she was comfortable, but she didn't speak to me except to thank me. I wished she would say something, but I’m also afraid of what she’d have to say. 

On the third morning Aveline was pacing, the sunbeams casting her hair like fire in the light of the super intimately familiar golden Gallows statues as she hisses impatiently, “It’s been three days! This waiting has to end. I don’t want to beg for food unless I have no other choice.” 

“I’m sure it won’t be much longer, Gamlen must be looking for us!” Mother replies diplomatically, her hands folded in her lap as she stands leaning against one of the ugly gold statues. 

“And if he’s not?” Aveline counters, her jaw set with a frustrated expression. 

I run a hand through my hair and wonder what it it must be like to have a decent bath when I spot an elderly man with dark skin approach from the staircase from inside the city, one with vague, yet familiar features. “Don’t look now, but I think that’s our man.” Mother, Carver, and Aveline all turn at once, causing the man to notice us by the statue and approach.

“Leandra!” He calls with a gruff voice, “Damn, girl, the years haven’t been kind to you!” The man breaks into a grin, and I can see as he got closer that he’s, at best, haggard. He has shaggy gray hair and a badly shaven jaw, but now that he’s right here I can see he has Mother's eyes and cheekbones. I had never met Gamlen before now; Mother hardly ever spoke of her life before she came to Ferelden to marry Father, but I have to admit, this is not the picture of a nobleman with a noble house and a noble estate. 

“Gamlen!” Mother cries out in joy and embraces him warmly, her head resting on his shoulder. 

Gamlen hugs her back tightly, but immediately he begins to stutter, “Leandra, let me just say up front, I was not expecting this. The Blight, your husband… dead. I’d uh… figured you’d pretty much be Ferelden for life.” He pulls away and holds her shoulders briefly before he releases her, his gaze is warm but when I reach out towards him with my mind I can tell that he’s definitely hiding something, there’s something about Mother’s presence that fills him with skyrocketing apprehension like a cat caught in cream when the cat knows the consequences. I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms, and when I glance at Carver beside me I see that he too is regarding the man suspiciously. Or that could also be his face.

“Oh Gamlen, we came too late. My darling Bethany didn’t make it… Andraste guide her.” Mother’s voice breaks and her eyes cast downward. I study how Gamlen’s shoes are worn to stitches. 

“Oh Maker save me, Leandra, don’t drop this on me here, I don’t even know if I can help you get in.” Gamlen sighs, shaking his head with a stressed tone. 

I smirk, playing up some charm, “Would it help if I said you were my favorite uncle?”  _ My only uncle, but technicalities. _

Gamlen merely chuckles, “It’d make me feel better, but that’s about it. I was hoping to… grease some palms, but the Knight Commander has been cracking down. We’re going to need more grease.” He eyes Carver and I with a particular gaze, one that I can’t quite place nor quite like for that matter, it reminds me of cats sizing up mice before they pounce.

“But… what about the estate? Surely Father left something after he died.” Mother asks, her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

Gamlen scrambles, I can practically feel his thoughts working and twisting in the air, “Right, uh, about the estate, it’s um… gone. To settle a debt… I’ve been meaning to write you!” Gamlen offered a greasy half smile. 

Mother hangs her head, closing her eyes in defeat as she whispers, “Then there's no hope.”  _ Seems a bit dramatic.  _

“Not quite.” Gamlen quickly grabs the opportunity to change the conversation as he faces us more directly, “I know some people who might help… If you aren’t too delicate about the company you keep.”

“But… Mother said our family was wealthy. You really can’t help us?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. I’m trying to be subtle in the manner of  _ where did the money go and how did you lose it _ , but I don’t want to be too forward about it. 

Gamlen scowls at me, a scowl I think I may have seen on Carver’s face before, “I  _ am _ blighted helping! I’ve got two offers of work from people who’ve got the coin to open those gates.”

Mother looks up from her feet, having apparently digested that Gamlen lost their family fortune and turns to glare accusingly at Gamlen, “I still can't believe you sold the estate, Gamlen, how could you?” 

_ Finally,  _ I thought,  _ someone else to have Mother’s anger.  _

“Well, I didn’t expect your entire blasted family to show up at my doorstep!” Gamlen grumbles back, before he bites his lip in an almost sheepish manner, “But, I’ve got a nice place in Lowtown, you’ll see. It’ll all work out!” 

I’ve never stepped into any city in my whole life, but even I know that a place called Lowtown can’t be  _ ‘nice’ _ . 

“Alright, let’s hear it Uncle.” I gesture for him to get on with it, to explain exactly what this ‘offer for work’ entails.

Gamlen sweeps into an explanation, “I’ve talked to my contacts, and I believe I may have found people who are willing to pay your way into the city. The catch is, you and your brother will have to work off the debt… for a year.” 

_ “A year?!” _ Mother exclaims, now holding her face in her hands. The more we talked, the greater her distress. I look at Carver and see his face is set into a permanent scowl. 

“It’s the best I can do! Trust me when I say that a bunch of refugees won’t get a better option anywhere else!” Gamlen protests in response, now looking to Carver and I for a verdict.

I turn to my brother to confer quietly. “How do you feel about this?” 

He looks back at me evenly and murmurs, “Mother has been through enough already. We could try our luck further inland, but I am not putting her through all that. We have family here, so we are staying here.” He punctuates on this with an assertive hand gesture of a flat hand into his palm. 

I look at him for a long moment before I turn back to Gamlen, “Well, then, I’m sure we’ll be free and clear before we know it.” 

Gamlen nods in agreement with a breath of relief before he gestures to the two different wings of the Gallows, “I convinced my contacts to come meet you personally in the Gallows. Meeran heads up a mercenary company, the Red Iron. They are looking for recruits. Athenril… I guess you would call her a smuggler. Either one of them can help you. All you need to do is find them in the courtyard and convince them that you're worth the trouble.” 

I turn to Carver and cocked an eyebrow for his opinion, to which he shrugs, “What can I say? Better here than nowhere.” 

I smirk a bit and turn back to Uncle Gamlen, “We’ll go see what these two have to say.”

“Oh Gamlen, I don’t know about this.” Mother protests, her hands twisting in her lap.

Gamlen sighs, “It’s a lot of coin, Leandra. Don’t go expect our name to carry the kind of weight that you are used to.”

“And what of me?” Aveline suddenly speaks up, her accented voice sounds like chimes in the echoes of the Gallows, “I will not allow others to incur debts on my behalf.” 

Gamlen looks her up and down before scoffing, “Can’t see that it makes a difference. You seem like the kind of lady that can pull her own weight.” 

Although I know that Gamlen intended for this to mean something different, it still rings entirely true as I replay my first meeting with Aveline, when she fucking scissored off a darkspawn's head.  _ For sure, she can pull her own goddamn weight. And yours too, Gamlen.  _

Mother turns to Aveline with a kind gaze, “Then you will come with us.” 

Aveline pauses, her expression betraying her surprise as she replies modestly, “I… have no real option. Thank you.” Mother merely nodded to her kindly as she and Gamlen turn away and begin to speak in low tones, walking down the steps and leaving us to consider our options. 

I turn to look at Carver, who looks evenly back at me, “Listen, about the two options…” I murmur with contemplative thought, “I don’t want to work for a mercenary company.” 

His eyes are even with mine, and I want to tell him how getting those deserters beat nearly to death by my inkling meddling three days ago has haunted my dreams. Specifically those dreams of my magic crushing everything I loved and leaving me alone and jailed in the Circle. You know, the fun ones. “And as much as I don’t like the sound of doing illegal shit, at least we won’t be killing people for a living.” I offer a wicked smirk as an afterthought, “You know, more illegal stuff, besides hiding the fact that I exist.”

Carver's expression is even as he listens, after a long moment’s pause he slowly nods, “I move with you, Arwen. Just as long as your ideas don’t get us killed, or worse.” 

I snort and roll my eyes at him as we turn around in the courtyard, “Always the optimist.” 

We go searching for the smuggler, Athenril.

The courtyard isn’t very large, but there are a lot of shadowy hiding spots that we have to walk around to really see into so we can find the smuggler. I spot a shrouded trio standing with crossed arms in the left wing, and I figure they are the best place to start in finding, speaking to, and convincing Athenril to pay our way into the city. That, as they are the only group of people in the courtyard besides other Ferelden refugees at the moment, so far as I can tell. 

As we approach, I noticed that all three are elves, armed in leather clad armor and knives as they stood in the dark of the left wing. They narrow their large eyes at us as I offer a winning, charismatic smile, “So which one of you is Athenril?” One of the elves, a woman with dark hair pulled back messily away from her face, turns to me with a stoic expression, her arms crossed as she eyes me, Carver, and Aveline. 

I’ve not met many elves in my lifetime. Occasionally, some would travel through looking for work, but beyond them they all were either beggars or servants of some sort. I never got to exchange many words with them. In larger cities and stuff like that elves live in an entirely different quarter, known as the alienage, but Lothering was small enough that the locals could simply drive out the unwanted by treating them as such. A shitty, shitty reality, but such was how it was in a small town. This elf carries herself differently than all of those other ones, though, as if she had important business to attend to and was being held back by standing around here. What’s strange is that I can’t seem to get much insight into her stature or her thoughts at the moment through my magic. Usually I can get an instant read on non-magical folk thanks to my telepathic nonsense, but with elves its always been different. Father used to tell Bethany and I legends of how elves held magic in their blood, regardless if they were actually mages, which does make me wonder as to whether or not that that’s the reason why I can’t get a read now, even though I sense no magic in her. She just seems… in a hurry. But that’s all I can glean without outright pilfering her head.

“You must be Gamlen’s nephew.” She pauses her searching and looks me over again without a change in expression, “Interesting.” A part of me wants to wonder exactly  _ what is so interesting pray tell  _ but she continues without a second to spare, “I don’t know what he’s told you about us, but he’s certainly told us a great deal about you.” 

Carver tenses up beside me, glancing over at me for a moment before he asks in a tentative manner, “How… much exactly?’ I can tell where Carver’s head’s gone to in this moment and I can’t help but guess the same; Gamlen may have been boasting about my being a mage to this group of smugglers. I can’t help but curse internally. Would he even know that?  _ How  _ would he even know that? No way Mother would risk writing that in her letter… would she?

“Enough to pique interest, provided you can justify your uncle’s confidence.” Athenril replies as she turns to watch me with large brown eyes. Elves are different than humans in their physical appearance, besides the fact that their ears are pointed; they are slighter, more lithe as a race on average, and they have straight noses and large eyes, like cats. Right now, looking at her strange eyes, I wish I had somehow gotten some more experience speaking to elves, different sorts of people in general but especially elves, so that I wouldn't have to rely on biases or racial stereotypes when it comes to speaking to those different from me.  _ I guess this is the chance to change that, though. _

“I’d like to know more about what we would be doing for you.” I cut to the chase, letting my arms wrap around my staff to lean on as the sun beat down on my shoulders. 

“I can be honest.” Athenril begins without a preamble, “We don’t compete with the thieves’ guild, but we keep our fingers in a lot of pots. That said, we are not killers or slavers. Anything shorter than that, however, is fair game.” Athenril answers with a surprising amount of veritas in her tone, her eyes are unmoving and her expression is stoic. It’s hard to gather much about her personality as her demeanor is rather… professional, but I can tell that it’s not a mask, I think she’s rather naturally terse, which can be both a boon and a curse. 

Aveline murmurs softly into my ear, “Do what you want, but this sounds fishy to me.”

Carver deftly responds in a short huff, having overheard her from my other side, “Begging and taking your pick never went hand in hand.” As much as I agree with Aveline, Carver’s right. That, and mercenary work hardly seems all that ‘honest’ to me, and those are the options. 

Athenril doesn’t seem to notice this, or at least she doesn’t care, so I ignore their words and press on with narrowed eyes fixed on her, “I hear getting us into the city isn’t cheap.”

“If you are as good as your uncle claims, we’re hoping that you will be worth it. After all, it’s not everyday that we are offered an apostate’s services.” Athenril responds smoothly, and immediately I can’t help but feel a cold chill up my spine.  _ So it’s true. Gamlen did tell them about my talents.  _

“I didn’t realize that Gamlen told you that much.” I mutter with furrowed eyebrows, crossing my arms defensively as I feel Carver tense beside me, his brow is creased in worry. I look around to see who is close by and find, fortunately, that we are quite alone in the courtyard with Athenril and her two lackeys, who have been completely expressionless throughout this entire exchange.

Athenril scoffs, “The templars in Kirkwall like to think that they have all the mages properly leashed, but when has that ever been true? We can keep them from taking notice while you are with us. Wouldn’t be the first time.” Athenril’s eyes are unwavering, resolved and even as she meets the eyes of an apostate. She doesn’t seem nervous or scared, she hardly seems to be acting all that differently towards me than what I’d expect from her to act towards Carver, and I’m unsure whether that’s a good or a bad thing. Upon thinking about this though, I’m unsure how I would’ve been much use to a smuggler’s ring without using magic, and based on the expressionless visages of her accomplices I think it may be safe to say that I can use magic around them. In fact, it may just be expected. 

This… would be an excellent deal, considering the nightmare whispers I had heard from Kirkwall. And considering the Circle here is called the fucking  _ Gallows.  _

I make eyes at Carver to gauge his feelings and see him glaring back at me in the classic, peeved off Carver manner, making me wonder whether or not he’s blaming me for acting too mage-y or something that now three total strangers know I’m magical. I blink at him slowly before turning back to face the elf, who stands as unmoving as the slave statues around us, “I’m willing to sign on with you, Athenril.”

“Good.” She responds evenly, stepping closer so she can speak in a much softer tone, “Now, just do this one thing for me, and we’ll pay your way into the city. See if you’re as good as you claim.” I try to swallow my apprehension as she flickers her gaze at me to Carver then back at me, “There’s a merchant here in the Gallows, selling to refugees. He owes my people money, and hasn’t been forthcoming. Get me that money, and we’ll see you enter the city.” She gestures with her chin toward the gate to the courtyard. 

I nod with a joking salute, “Don’t worry, you’ll have your coin in no time.” She doesn’t laugh, nor crack a smile, she merely blinks at me in acknowledgement that I spoke. With that said I turn to Carver and Aveline with a shrug, “Let’s do this, then.” 

We walk toward the gate Athenrol pointed towards to shake up the merchant. I know of who it is that she speaks, there’s only one merchant in the Gallows courtyard right now and it’s the same person that Mother had been trading with, a large man with a round belly and a thick neck. As we approach I think to myself that he looks easy enough to take in a fight, as I glance over at Carver I can see that he’s thinking the same thing. “Let’s try diplomacy first.” I whisper to him as we head towards his makeshift table of wares, covered in supplies like food and water and sacks of items haphazardly thrown underneath the table like an afterthought. A woman is standing there as we get closer, she appears to be offering him a pendant on the table. 

“I’m sorry, serah, but that’s the best I can do.” The man sighs in a bored tone, crossing his arms with a half lidded look at the woman. 

She holds out the meager sovereign the man had apparently given her with a desperate shake in her breath, “But this is all we’ve got! This can’t even get us halfway to entering the city!” 

The man rolls his eyes, turning his back on the woman with the pendant at hand, examining it in his palm, “Deal’s a deal, serah.” 

The woman glares at his back, snarling threateningly, “If I could just get into the city… I could get three times this.” 

The merchant, seemingly finished with her making a scene, gestures to two men in black leather armor at his side, ones I did not notice up until now. One steps forward and roughly shoves the woman away, sending her stumbling a few steps, “Your business here is done!” 

She stammers, looking at the sovereign in her hand before she sighs and turns to walk away. I can’t help but wonder if Mother got just as snubbed in order to get us the food that we’ve been living off of for the past three days.

“Hello there, how can I help you?” The man asks with as much charm as a slug, now turning to face us with a fresh face as if he hadn't just cheated that woman blind. 

I can’t help but scowl. “Don't you think you are being a bit… uncharitable?” I ask, putting it mildly. 

He merely scoffs in reply, slouching with his fingers dragging on the rough tabletop, a drastic change in demeanor. “I’m operating a business, not a charity, serah, I always try to give these dog-lords a fair price, or they can just have no one to sell their goods.”  _ These dog-lords? Does he think I’m a Marcher? I suppose my accent isn't as thick as that woman’s…  _

I tense, as does Carver, who immediately harps back with a hiss, “You mean people like us?”

The man coughs uncomfortably, glancing away, “Erm, yes, of course! Would you prefer to have no one to trade with? And even if I wanted to help, there’s only so much I can do.” 

Aveline grumbles beside me, her eyes surprisingly stony as she stares down the crooked merchant, “I'm sure the profits help with the guilt.”

_ Alright, down to business _ , I think, _ before we start a scene _ . “I’m here because you owe your business partners something.” I cross my arms to try and appear as intimidating as possible. 

To my pleasure the merchant visibly paused at this statement, biting his lip nervously as he mutters, “Oh.” 

“Do you want us to get the guard?” One of his bodyguards pipes up, uncrossing his arms as if prepared to do just this. The three of us tense; I figure with Aveline and Carver we can certainly beat them into submission without much of a fuss, it’s just a matter of whether I can fight back with magic without the meager populace of the courtyard noticing anything that would make them cry  _ ah shit that’s a fucking mage! _

The merchant waves them off. “No no, I want to hear this.” He turns to me with fresh eyes, looking me up and down before he scoffs, “So, what is it, is Athenril too cowardly to get it herself?”

As I glance between the two men, considering the methods to proceed, I feel the deep anger from Aveline beside me poking out and catching my mental attention. I turn to look at her and immediately I can see the righteous anger in her eyes… what better time than now to unleash it. “Care to step in?” I murmur to her with a raised eyebrow. 

Aveline doesn’t waste a second. “Only because this toad deserves it,” She growls deep and low like a great jungle cat as she strides forward, pulling a dagger from her belt and moving as if to stab the merchant in the neck. He squeals in a very manly way as the dagger suddenly freezes just inches from his pulsing veins, he stands there cowering like a babe. His two bodyguards flinch and move for their weapons but are halted by Aveline’s burning glare.

“You have a choice.” She states with the voice of a preacher, “Pay what's due, or I’ll beat it out of you,  _ and _ your men.” She turns to the two guards, who merely hold their hands up in surrender at this.

The merchant stammers, attempting to compose himself, “F-Fine, it’s in the chest. Take it before I change my mind!” Aveline allows the razor’s edge of the dagger to drop from his neck, and now that he’s freed the merchant stumbles back and snarls, “And make the templars to find someone else to buy dog-land junk!” With the little hissy fit done he turns and stalks away from the stall, the two useless, armored men following suit. 

I raise an eyebrow and glance at Carver, who looked equally as incredulous as I that that was so easy. “You’re quite the force of nature, Aveline.” I chuckle with a wide grin. 

She merely sheathes the dagger with a shrug, and I have the feeling that the threatening had allowed her to get out some of her anxious energy, as she appears to be a lot less tense than before. “Only when I have to be.” She murmurs in an almost pensive manner. 

I turn to the chest and open it, inside being about four sovereigns total. I pocket the money and turn with my companions to return to Athenril.

As we re-enter the left wing of the Gallows Courtyard, we find Athenril waiting patiently with two other elves with her, her arms crossed with a tap of her foot impatiently. I toss her the coin pouch once we’re close and smile cheekily, “You could’ve given us something a little more challenging.”

Athenril blinks nad catches the pouch, opening it up with raised an eyebrow as she counts before she turns to look back at me, “Well, I’ll be.” She pulls on the drawstrings and hands the bag to a dark haired elf next to her as she speaks without breaking eye contact with me, “I’ll go speak with your uncle about the bribes… Welcome aboard.” Because it’s hard for me to say exactly what she’s feeling, all I can glean from her is that she may be impressed, but I can’t tell if that’s true or if she’s just relieved to be out of the courtyard. She turns away, her people following her toward the steps.  _ Back to Gamlen and Mother, I suppose. _

We head back towards the entrance into the square where Gamlen and Mother stand. Our uncle looks up as we approach, and his expression is visibly stressed, “Any luck?” 

It’s only now that I wonder how exactly my uncle got ‘contacts’ with smugglers and mercenaries, but I figured now was not the time to bring that up. 

“Was there any doubt?” I smirk charmingly with a light, lackadaisical shrug, to which Carver promptly rolled his eyes beside me. I move on before he can groan, “We signed on with Athenril.”

Gamlen nods seriously, “I’ll speak to her and see when the bribes can be made, wait here.” With that he turns and walks off, and I turn and watch him approach Athenril’s place at the base of the steps as they begin to confer with the Captain, I believe the same one as days before when we had helped deal with the deserters. There’s still blood on the cobblestones in some places.

“I guess we did it.” Carver murmurs after a while as Athenril, Gamlen and the captain meet, turning to face me, “We’re here to stay, at least for a while.” 

I turn to face him as well, breaking into a grin, “No more running for our lives unless we  _ really  _ have to.” 

Carver scoffs, beside him I see Aveline smile in relief. We are done running from the Blight, and now it’s time to start a life in Kirkwall.  _ Kirkwall  _ of all places… 

“If only Bethany were here with us.” Mother whispers to herself as she hangs her head. 

Aveline’s smile quickly fades as she mirrors the motion, “And Wesley.” She whispers to herself. 

I turn away from them and look at the city with new eyes, knowing that this is where I’m going to be living for at least another year. And who knows how long after?

“Well, we are off to a fantastic start! Let's see what else this city has in store for us.” I proclaim with semi-faux excitement, staring at the rising tower of the Gallows beyond. I can’t help but wonder if by the time the year is up I’ll be imprisoned there as well, just like Father was a long time ago. It would be poetic… but it would sure suck ass. 

...

_ “And so, began the Champion’s first year in Kirkwall.” Varric continues for Cassandra, his hands splayed across the wooden arms of his chair. “Word soon arrived from across the sea that the Hero of Ferelden had defeated the Blight, but Lothering was destroyed. Kirkwall was the Champion’s home, now.” Varric’s eyes are sad as he retells the story; he remembers when Hawke told him about his feelings towards returning to Ferelden. Then later, knowing his story of how he left… Varric remembers thinking, ‘how does that not fuck with someone's head?’  _

_ “So, he remained, paying off his debt. He soon made a name for himself in the underworld. It was a busy year in the city… that’s when the Qunari landed.” Cassandra visibly perks up at this, her gaze fixating on Varric’s, which he revels in as he speaks with an elaborate wave of his hands like a mage crafting a spell, “A great storm caught their ship and left hundreds of warriors stranded in the city, waiting to return home. And… that’s also when the trouble began with the mages.” Varric sighs, rubbing his temples as he continues in a low voice, Cassandra’s steady eye upon him like the north star, “The templars had become very powerful under Knight Commander Meredith.”  _

_ Varric suddenly perks up a bit, smirking as he leans forward in his seat, “But, most importantly, that was when  _ ** _I_ ** _ first met the Champion.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College is whooping my ASS but not enough that I can't finish up a chapter  
Yay DA2 official startup!  
Next we do those intro Varric and Aveline quests.


	3. Inquiries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Hawke, the last year has been full of work for Athenril, dodging templars, more work for Athenril, hiding from more templars, rinse repeat. But, now that he's freed from the year long contract, he has bigger, templar-shaped problems that have sprung up literally on his doorstep, and he needs a plan on how to deal with it, and fast.  
A solution comes along swiftly, but getting it may be more difficult than he expects.  
\---  
Warnings: violence and blood

I’m not sure what I was expecting my first year in Kirkwall to be like, but it sure wasn’t… whatever the fuck that was. 

Avoiding templars was so much harder here than it was in Lothering. There Bethany and I knew each templar by name, then their habits, their history, their observation skills (or lack thereof) and how to avoid them. But here, templars are all over the place. They loiter in taverns, in the streets, some take their duty about as seriously as I take everything, but others are different, like that one who patrols the docks. He’s always asking people insistently about ‘suspicious apostates’, and demanding they be reported, literally a heckler but for apostasy. Safe to say I don’t go to the docks very often, unless I really have to for Athenril. 

Luckily, working with Athenril didn’t make the templars an immediate problem. Everyone in the group knew about my magic basically as soon as Carver and I joined up, so I could practice it on the job. If we ever needed hirelings beyond what Athenril had, they would be the sort that weren’t exactly ‘do-gooders’ who’d report me to the Chantry. It wasn’t easy work; Carver and I protected so many shipments I lost count, and many times shit would hit the fan so hard we’d be covered in it. Once we were literally when shipping some livestock under dockmaster radar. Disgusting… 

As the year was coming to an end, Athenril started putting us on more missions, sometimes more than two or three a day. Once a day before was enough for Carver to crash on his bed face down and sleep for twelve hours but two or three? It wore us to the bone. One time we had to help smuggle a shipment of valuables for the Carta after already having a showdown with a former employer for payment just that morning. I’d had my first nosebleed since we faced off with the horde of darkspawn because well… see, all things were going well until the Coterie intercepted us, trying to take our shipment for themselves. I’d telepathically flung one over the railing, breathing hard with shaking limbs after flinging at least five others after him  _ and  _ shielding Carver and the rest of the crew,  _ and  _ while keeping the shipment close, when I felt blood slide down my lip. For a non-magical person nosebleeds aren’t usually a problem, but for me, especially because I’m a telepathic mage, it spells bad news. It means that I’m stretching myself too thin and my body is wearing down. I had to sit down after the fight and just breathe, holding a rag to my nose as the others cleaned up any bodies. Carver noticed my state and was pissed, as was I, so when we recovered we demanded Athenril to let us  _ at least _ take longer pauses between jobs. Most of the others in the group on our level of employment had a job a week, we figured it only be right. But she didn’t quite agree, to quote her exactly,  _ “I’m sorry, who was the one who pulled Meredith’s strings to get you into the city? Get back to the route before I regret sticking my neck out for you.” _

She assigned us more work the week after, I’m pretty sure as a punishment for speaking out against her. However, once we lost a shipment because I’d blacked out, she eventually relented. By then, the year was up, and Carver and I cut ourselves loose faster than a sail line. 

But that quickly led to other problems. Now that we were out of Athenril’s protection, her people were no longer loyal to us, and word got around that there was an apostate mage’s services available in the underground. Naturally, the templars got wind of it, and began to start asking questions around and about Lowtown. Apparently, one night a few even came to Gamlen’s doorstep while I was with Carver looking up some jobs at the board, they were asking around for apostates. Gamlen didn’t sell us out, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d catch wind of my name and return. 

That was when we heard about the expedition.

It started with rumor, a dwarf searching for hirelings for an trip into the Deep Roads, the dwarven tunnels that spanned all of Thedas. There are rumors that they have abandoned treasure littered in pockets that only few could find, and this dwarf claimed he could find one. 

This expedition is exactly the break that Carver and I need; it’s the perfect opportunity to skip town while questions are floating around, a chance to get our names into different circles, and even better, a chance at getting enough gold to set us up for life, at least enough to get the templars off our backs. So it’s sufficient to say that we  _ need  _ to get on that expedition. 

“No!” Bartrand snarls as he strides with a deep scowl, his fists clenched as Carver and I follow close behind him. He’s a little taller than half our size, but his small legs carry him fast, Carver and I have to hustle to keep up with him, “Andraste’s tits, human! Do you know how many people want to hire onto this expedition?” 

Carver and I shared a look, both of our minds turning on how to convince this dwarf that we weren’t just normal hirelings as subtly as possible, “Look,” Carver began, “We know you are going into the Deep Roads. You’re going to need the best, and we’re-” 

“No!” Bartrand snaps again, stopping in his path in frustration as he whirls on us with angry, beady blue eyes like a weasel, “You’re too late, already done!”

Carver sighs in exasperation and I can tell he’s trying not to sound frustrated, “The money from this trip could fix everything! You need us. We’ve fought darkspawn!”

Bartrand sighs and pinches his brow, turning his glare to Carver, “Look, precious, I don’t care if you tore the horns off an ogre with your bare hands.”  _ Well, I mean, we almost did…  _

Carver throws his hands in the air with another sigh, turning to me with a familiar scowl, “You make him understand, we’re running from  _ your _ bloody templars!” 

I frown at him with furrowed eyebrows and turn to face Bartrand.  _ Fucking hell, Carver, that’s one way to let him know who he’s talking to.  _ “My brother has a point… it’s on his  _ head… _ but it’s still valid.” 

I give Carver a pointed look but he merely meets it with the same amount of typical hostility. “Oh, thanks for that.” Carver grumbles back under his breath, crossing his arms with an angry huff.

I ignore him to look at Bartrand with a charismatic smirk instead, playing up the charm as tangibly as possible, “So how about it, Bartrand? We’re  _ just _ what you need.”  _ An apostate. I’m an apostate, and you’re going to the Deep Roads, take a damn mage with you. _

I’d hoped that the templar comment would tip off to Bartrand of our predicament, and how it might benefit to have a mage hireling, but he doesn’t seem to care as he shakes his head again. “Heh. You’re looking for a quick way out of the slums, right? You and every other Ferelden in this dump.” Bartrand whirls away with a hiss, glaring over his shoulder, “Find another meal ticket.” 

With that, he stalks off toward the Merchant’s Guild square in Hightown, leaving us in the dust of his wake. 

“Well… back to waiting for someone to turn us in.” Carver grumbles as he turns to face me, his arms crossed with a surly expression. 

I raise an eyebrow at him and rest my hands on my belt, responding with an annoyed lilt, “Oh, you can relax. After all, the templars dogging us are _ ‘mine.’” _ It’s a bit pointed, while valid, but it does its job in getting the message across. 

Carver raises an eyebrow with a huff, “Did I really sound that bad? Maker, I’m turning into Gamlen!” 

I break into a smirk and laugh under my breath as the two of us turn to walk down Hightown market street, heading back toward Lowtown as Carver continues pensively, “Gamlen… he’s got the head for this garbage. Maybe he could talk to Bartrand? He knows some people. After last week, we need all the coin and influence we can get!” I nod in agreement, once again grateful that I had not been at Gamlen’s when the templars had visited.  _ The last thing I want is to end up in the Gallows, and I can’t believe that that’s turning into such a difficult task to accomplish. Guess we were more pampered back in Ferelden than we thought we were… or maybe it’s just like that in cities. But Kirkwall does feel particularly bad. _

“You can catch more flies with honey… But I’m sure Gamlen’s bullshit could work.” I respond cheekily. 

Carver rolls his eyes at me with a groan in response before he continues on with a wave of his hand, “He did get us into the city, right?” He counters, his hand resting on his sword hilt, “What else can we do? We’re losing ground, and I don’t fancy waking up in the Gallows.” 

I wonder whether I should tell him that he’d probably get locked up in the normal jail in the Viscount’s Keep for harboring an apostate and not the actual tower itself; he is normal after all. The only one under threat of life imprisonment is me. 

But I decide not to. His caution is probably what got me to stay undiscovered for so long, after all, and I can’t say that I don’t appreciate it. 

As we turn to walk down the stairs leading out, a man with wild red hair bumps into me and rushes on like he’s late for an important meeting. I stagger but on instinct I find myself narrowing my gaze and watching him with my mind’s eye, scanning his surface level thoughts to see he’s on edge, stressed about something and that’s visibly obvious, the man’s got pit-stains and everything in his rugged tunic. Not usually the type you see in Hightown. But as soon as he’s a few feet away from me, bustling off with fierce strides, he’s relieved, and a little excited,  _ ‘I did it! Oh, I can’t wait to tell Jeffrey, that’ll show him!’  _

Oh, did I mention I figured out how to read some surface level thoughts, now? I can’t thank Athenril for much in terms of my magic but time with her has certainly honed my… skills.

Suspicious, I frown and pat my pocket where I kept my coin purse, just in case, and low and behold it’s gone.  _ Bitch!  _ I whirl on the thief, who almost seems to sense that I knew what he’d done as he takes off running down the street. “Hey!” I bark and sprint after him, Carver’s boots soon after me. 

The man skirts a corner many meters ahead of us as we barrel through the streets of Hightown after him. There are two whole sovereigns in that purse, more than we’d had in a long while, and probably the last we’ll get if we don’t get a job soon, so there’s no way in  _ hell  _ I’m letting this cheeky bastard get far with it.

Suddenly the air rings with a cracking sound and the thief cries out in pain. We screech to a stop at the corner just in time to spot the man, pinned to the wall by an arrow in his shoulder, or perhaps just in his tunic. But what draws my attention most chiefly is the dwarf with the badass looking crossbow approaching him. He’s surprisingly clean-shaven, a strange look to see on a dwarf but it’s becoming of this one, and he wears a fancy red tunic, half undone to show a healthy amount of curled hair prominently displayed on his chest.  _ Perhaps that’s where the beard went. _

The dwarf slings the crossbow onto his back and smirks at the thief as he purrs in a suave tone, “I knew a guy once who could take every coin out of your pocket just by smiling at you. But you? You don’t have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchant’s Guild.” Carver and I watch as the dwarf gets in the man’s face, as much as he can when he’s about half his height I guess, and tilts his head, “Might want to find yourself a new line of work.” He holds out his palm with a beckon of two fingers. 

The thief, trembling like a leaf in the breeze with pain and terror coming off of him in waves, drops my coin-purse into the dwarf’s palm willingly as he squirms, and once it’s in hand the dwarf delivers him a swift blow to the jaw before pulling the arrow out of him and the wall. The man gasps and immediately slips away, running down the street towards Lowtown. 

The dwarf turns slowly and dramatically to us, twirling the arrow at hand stylishly. 

Carver and I raise an eyebrow at the dwarf as he approaches, I reach out to him mentally to get a read on his thoughts, or rather _ what kind of shit I’m going to have to do to get my damn coin-purse back,  _ but I don’t get much a chance to as he throws the coin-purse to me once he’s close. I blink and catch it as he sheathes the arrow in a quiver on his hip, “How do you do?” He greets with a gentleman’s appraise, “Varric Tethras, at your service.” 

I raise an eyebrow at him and graze my thoughts over his to get a sense of what he wants. He’s calculating, it’s easy to see, but intrigued. He’d been watching Carver and I since we got to Hightown, he knew who we were when we approached Bartrand, someone that Varric knows intimately with a shadow of annoyance that is entirely familiar to me for some reason. He’d wanted to talk to us but he couldn’t figure out how, until he saw the thief nab the coin-purse. He’s reveling in the dramatism of this moment, even more so that he didn’t have to pay to make it happen this way. 

Varric smiles at us charmingly as he continues in the same suave tone, “I apologize for Bartrand, he wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw.” 

“But you would?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, jutting my chin toward Varric suspiciously. It all seems so... convenient. If I didn’t take a look into his head, I would’ve figured his appearance entirely staged. 

Varric merely smiles in a knowing manner, “I would! What my brother doesn’t realize is that  _ we need _ someone like you.”  _ Ahah.  _ I think to myself,  _ Bartrand is your brother. Last name Tethras. Checks out.  _ “He would never admit it either, he’s too proud.” Varric continues before he cocks an eyebrow and grants me a roguish grin, “I, however, am quite practical.” 

“So, you are a part of Bartrand’s venture?” I ask, tilting my head at Varric curiously. He seems authentic, at least in terms of how he’s speaking and presenting himself in comparison to his thoughts, which is altogether hugely surprising for a dwarf, so it grants him my undivided attention. Not that he didn’t already have it by being Bartrand’s brother, but this bonus side benefit is a… well, a bonus.

He nods in affirmation, “That’s right! The Deep Roads wouldn’t normally my thing, but I can’t allow the head of our family to go down there alone. So as you might imagine, I have more than a passing interest in this expedition’s success.”

“What makes you so certain we are what you need? You know nothing about us.” I watch the smooth-talking dwarf coolly. Truthfully the question is leading; I want to watch his words and scan his thoughts and see if they line up as he gives the answer, and it wouldn’t hurt to know by tracing ends how who I am got around to this dwarf. And just  _ how much  _ about who I am he knows of.

“Oh, on the contrary, you’ve made quite a name for yourself in the past year.” Varric responds smoothly with a deft shake of his head, “Left and right, smugglers and thieves guilds were dropping like flies, but Athenril’s remained. All because of you.” 

Varric’s thoughts match his words to a T, but there is much he isn’t saying. I can hear him mentally thinking about the rumored magical power I command, how he heard I’d caused a group of Coterie to stab themselves on their own swords with a look. He isn’t too far from wrong, which is highly amusing, but I’m surprised that he actually heard a truthful rumor rather than something extravagant. 

He rubs the tips of his gloves together with a pensive twist of his lip, “The name Hawke is on many lips these days. Not bad for a Ferelden fresh off the boat.” Varric rests his hands casually on the quiver that hangs at his side, relaxed and at ease in stature. 

Hawke is what I prefer to be called for a multitude of reasons. I’m the eldest of the family, so many people back at Lothering referred to me by my family name instead of Arwen, to which I’m blessed because it isn’t exactly a cool name. Hawke sounds mysterious, or something like that. It also helps for me to introduce myself to people on the job and keep a point of relative anonymity. It was what I introduced myself as while working with Athenril. Carver’s annoyed about it, he said it made my head big, but I think he’s just jealous he didn’t do it first. Carver isn’t a bad name, though, not like Arwen.  _ ‘Carver’ _ carries when you shout it. 

“If you’ve heard of me, you must’ve heard of my brother, Carver, as well.” I jut a thumb to him as he stand beside me with his arms crossed, scowling preemptively. 

Varric glances at Carver with a swift once over before returning his chocolate gaze to mine, “A little, yes, but it is you they speak most of, messere.” I can see in his head how he mentally notes my affinity towards my brother. He’s calculating, that’s for sure, sizing me up just as I’m sizing him up, but it doesn’t feel malicious. Just like how my constantly scanning his head is not done out of malicious purpose either, just trying to get all the information I need on whether or not I can trust Varric on his word alone. So far… he’s passing the test. But we’ll see. 

Carver snorts and rolls his eyes, “That figures.” 

Varric merely smiles politely, “Your brother is certainly welcome to join us, by all means, but I will leave that in your hands.” 

Carver tenses, turning to glare at me, “Oh,  _ I’m going. _ ” He hisses tersely, “Without this expedition, we won’t last out the year.” 

I wave him down. I had no intention of leaving Carver behind to head to the Deep Roads, his skills as a swordsman are great and frankly… I want his company. Camping out in dark tunnels hardly seems like a fun time, so you know I’m desperate if I’m turning to my sunshine and daisies brother for  _ company. _

But there’s one thing that doesn’t check out, and that’s the unspoken  _ but.  _ There’s more to this than Varric simply being charitable, even if it is for an apostate hireling. I turn back to Varric with a suspicious expression, now crossing my arms, “You  _ are _ going far out of your way just to hire another guard.”

“We don’t need another hireling: we need a partner.” Varric confirms, stepping close as he spoke in a thematic tone, “The truth is, Bartrand has been tearing his beard out trying to fund this on his own, but he can’t do it.” Varric taps his fingertips together like a mastermind as he states his proposal, “Invest in the expedition: fifty sovereigns and he can’t refuse… not with me there to vouch for you.” 

I can’t help but whistle lowly at the number. Fifty fucking sovereigns? It took weeks to save up the 3 sovereigns after we split from Athenril.  _ I’m going to need more information before I devote that much coin into the expedition. Like the payoff for it, and the motivations behind his ‘vouching’. _

“So, why would you stick your neck out for a complete stranger?” I ask with a suspicious gaze, looking at Varric with a cocked eyebrow. 

He merely shrugs casually in response, “I’d rather take a chance with someone of your reputation than head into the Deep Roads unprepared. And besides, we’d be your  _ partners _ . I’m willing to give a little trust if you are.” Varric smiles charmingly and I can’t help but admire just how smooth of a talker he was, from one to another. It’s obviously very well practiced. I find myself getting rather invasive in his head, picking at his thoughts for some sort of lie within his words because no one who is so smooth of talking is this authentic, but at the moment, he is being shockingly veritable. It’s refreshing for certain, and it almost makes me hesitant to be so invasively clawing through his head if he’s telling the truth so often.

“Well… I certainly hope that there is more to this, like how exactly I am supposed to get that much coin.” I huff, glancing at Carver who has begun shifting restlessly. When I follow his itching gaze I see that it’s because a templar is passing nearby, obviously not paying the slightest bit of attention to us, but his presence still sets Carver on edge. Why he’s so stressed about the templars was beyond me because what can they do to him, truly? I’d be the one that would be thrown into the Gallows. 

“You need to think big!” Varric proclaims with an almost story-teller’s tone, his hands on his waist confidently, “There is only a brief window after a Blight where the Deep Roads won’t be crawling with darkspawn. The treasure you find down there could set you and your family up for  _ life! _ ”

Carver nudges me gently with his elbow, murmuring, “Come on, the dwarf makes some sense…” He glances at Varric and tries to smile, but seems more to wince, “No offense.” He turns back to me and continues in an even lower register. “Look, you started this, and it’s a good idea. Certainly better than ending up in the Gallows.”

“We work together, you and I, and before you know it, you’ll have all the capitol you need. What do you say?” Varric raises an eyebrow at me searchingly, wanting to know my deliberation. I glance over at Carver to see him giving me the same expectant expression.  _ Up to me, then. _

I fully detract out of Varric’s head. He’s been completely honest with me thus far, and seems to be genuine in wanting my help for the expedition… I think I’m willing to have a little faith, at least in him. Less so for Bartrand… Bartrand I don’t trust as far as I can throw him. So I sigh for a moment before smirking briefly, “Well, it’s not like I had anything better planned.” 

“Perfect.” Varric grins with a chuckle as he turns to walk beside me down the streets of Hightown. “Kirkwall is crawling with work. You set aside some coin from every job, and you’ll have the money in no time.”

“Sure. Easy.” Carver grumbles and shakes his head before he pauses and looks at me, walking on my left, “Maybe Aveline has got some bounties out.”

Varric pipes up from my right, “We should speak privately when you get the chance, at the Hanged Man. That’s where I’ll be when I am not with you.” Varric smirks broadly as his hand rests on his quiver, giving me a knowing gaze, “Now, lets see what trouble we can stir up.”

…

Varric decides to tag along with Carver and I to help out with getting some jobs, and I take it happily. I recede from his mind more and more as we travel, mostly because it’s exhausting but also because Varric hasn’t told me a single lie, half truth, or anything. He’s certainly a smooth talker in every facet, but with me he is surprisingly truthful about everything, honest and open, so to preserve the sanctity of his mind I let him alone. It’s hard to leave people’s heads be, especially working with the people I do, but it’s something that I’m having to reteach myself; not all situations are dire and need it, and I don’t want to have to feel ashamed about my power to people who know it. Carver thinks it’s wonderful, but doesn’t really get that I can’t dig through templar heads like I can normal people heads, and occasionally when I’m looking at him for a long time he’ll get suspicious and tell me to stop rifling. Aveline on the other hand… 

Carver’s idea to meet Aveline to see if she has any bounties is a good one, shockingly, so after our brief discussion with Varric the three of us head to the Viscount’s Keep to speak with her at the barracks. Along the way Varric asks me some questions, standard stuff,  _ what part of Ferelden are you from  _ and  _ how do you like Kirkwall.  _ I answer honestly, just to hold the trust that he’d stored in me, and he seems to appreciate it. He isn’t easy to read, not at all, but I think he’s being deliberately open so that I can see his open hand and take it with mine. So I do.

When we arrive to the Viscount’s Keep, many nobles are loitering in the lobby, probably in queue to speak with the Viscount himself. They give the three of us suspicious glances as we enter, but they seem to relax as we head toward the barracks on the right side of the keep instead of toward their posh libraries or whatever on the left. We still look the part of Ferelden refugees, I suppose; come to think of it I may be wearing the exact tunic I was wearing when we escaped Lothering all that time ago. Mother has patched it up thrice since then… But hey, it’s a good tunic. 

We enter the barracks and see many guards lingering about. Some were sitting at tables, talking lightly with one another, some even drinking, but despite the number it’s easy to spot Aveline. She stands like an angel of justice next to what appears to be the duty roster on the far wall, her red hair tied back with a leather thong that largely matches the ginger handkerchief that all guards wear around their necks. Her expression is concentrated on the papers but when I enter the room her green eyes flicker to mine. 

I smile and wave, approaching amicably, “Aveline!” 

“‘Ello, Hawke.” She responds without a second glance in my direction, returning her eyes to the duty sheet. 

I can’t help but I raise an incredulous eyebrow as I stop just over her shoulder. Barely seen one another for a year and just a hello? Not even that, an  _ ‘ello. _

Well, we hang out every once in a while, like once a month at the Hanged Man, a pub in Lowtown, but since she’d gotten her job at the city guard she distanced herself from Carver and I for… well, obvious reasons. Though, she still looks out for me; she had a lot of run-ins with Athenril’s people that led to some bad blood. Since I’ve been out of it, though, I hope that means we can reconnect because… well. We bonded leaving Lothering together. We both lost something that day, and that’s something that I don’t share with anyone outside of my family. Call it sentimentality, I guess.

“That’s it?” I huff, hands resting on my waist. 

She blinks and slowly turns to me with a confused expression. “What?” She scans my form before recognition flickers in her gaze, she fully faces me as she continues in a low tone, “Oh… Right. Sorry, it feels like we just talked.” Aveline shrugs her shoulders to adjust her armor, tilting her head to the side to regard me. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you… Information is one of the few perks of this job. Watch out for Bartrand: he’s a son of a bitch.”

I frown darkly at her and cross my arms, grumbling lowly, “You know I don’t like it when you have people watching me.”

Aveline merely shrugs like I just asked how she feels about the weather, leaning against the duty roster board with one hand on the hilt of her sword in a relaxed manner, “Well, it saved me from camping on your doorstep.” She looks down at her feet for a moment and I see something like pain flicker across her face before she speaks in a softer register than before, tentative almost, “After what we went through to get here, I…” She pauses and looks up at me, and the expression quickly vanishes, “Well, you are no child, but I look after my friends. With the places that they have me patrolling, I’ve got time.” She growls the last part under her breath. I investigate her face and even without mentally reaching out I can see the evident frustration behind her eyes; there is something bothering her about the job, but I can tell that it isn’t the job itself that’s frustrating her… she’s said before it’s satisfying to protect people… so the people, then. Someone above her maybe, hindering her duty to serve best. It would be someone she holds in high regard but forcefully so, not because she truthfully sees them as someone worthy of her respect.

I change the subject, not wishing to make her feel uncomfortable. And I can’t help it; now that I have her here for a moment, I give a playful jab, “So, someone in your position must hear about profitable things.” I flash her a lazy grin, cocking an eyebrow playfully.

Aveline simply huffs, “You know better than to ask me that, Hawke.”

“One day you’ll be frustrated enough to go for it.” I chuckle cheekily, glancing over to my left when I see movement to see Carver looking at the duty roster. He’d told me before he applied to be a city guard a while ago, just before our year with Athenril is up. He never mentioned how that went, but gauging his peeved expression, I have a feeling it wasn’t well. Or it could also be his face. It’s hard to say really, especially recently.

Aveline growls and shakes her head as she looks off to the side, “It’s like I’m sitting on my hands. There are dangerous people in this city… Come to think of it, now that you’re here, I might have a job for you.” Aveline perks suddenly, her back straightening to the length of an arrow as she meets my gaze evenly, “Let me know if you want to do a favor for Kirkwall. Otherwise, I am here if you need me… Maker knows, I could use more satisfying work.” Aveline hisses between her teeth as she crosses her arms, her tone is almost tangibly disgruntled as she recedes back into an aura of general pissivity. 

I wanted to ask her what bothered her so before, so now seeing her bring up these issues again means that I’m free and clear to poke. And boy, do I love to poke.

“It’s been a year settling in. Are you… alright?”

Aveline’s gaze softens even though her jawline grows firmer, “You don’t need to coddle me. I am where I am. How close I hold my memories is my business.”

_ Fair enough.  _ I continue on with a more menial question, “Seems like Kirkwall suits you?” 

We never really spoke after I went to work for Athenril. I haven’t had more opportunities to catch up with her when I’m not already plastered. We hadn’t seen each other since, not really. Only once were some folks in Athenril’s group fully busted by guards, on a route Carver and I were not on for a change. Afterwards Aveline had come to the Hanged Man to check on me; apparently she’d switched patrols to avoid having to arrest me herself. She really is a true-blue friend.

“It has been a challenge. Lots of opportunity, if you are the type that the locals want.” She responds simplistically. 

“And are you?” I press further with a raised eyebrow, moving out of the way as a guard brushes past me to leave the room. I touch a hand to my hip casually, checking my coin purse, just in case; once a day was enough for me. 

Aveline shakes her head slightly as if to toss aside her own thoughts before she smirks slightly, “If you argue enough, you kind of convince yourself.”

I tilt my head to the side as I regard her curiously, “Well, the Blight  _ is  _ over. You could return to Lothering if you wanted.”

Aveline deftly shakes her head again, “That wasn’t home for me. It was just where the horde pressed us… It wasn’t the first village I saw fall.” She pauses and frowns down at her boots as she murmurs softer, “You don’t get used to seeing people lose everything.” She gives me a look, a pressing, searching look, and I can hear her thoughts without digging that she wanted to know how I was feeling. 

Soon after we got to Kirkwall, I let Aveline in on the secret that I could hear people’s thoughts if I chose to, sometimes against my will. She was stunned, shocked, and  _ very  _ uncomfortable with it at first, but after I assured her that I rarely used it but for self defense she relaxed and we moved on with our lives. It was rather relieving; it didn’t seem right to hide that part of me after all we’d gone through together. But now she knows how to nonverbally communicate with me, I’m unsure how but she figured out some trick on how to bury her thoughts deep in her consciousness so I’d have to go digging to feel them and how to bring them to the surface, like she’d spoken them aloud. 

To answer her prodding, unspoken question, I shrug a bit uncomfortably, “It… wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye, I’ll say that.”

“You can’t go home again.” Aveline states with finality, her gaze is forlorn and her tone is far away, “That’s supposed to be about maturity. It’s not the same when you don’t have the option.”

Seeing her straight back amongst the fallen shoulders of many of the guards in the room, another question comes to mind. “This must be a very different pace than serving King Cailan.”

Aveline sighs with a wistful edge, “I loved that life… but there’s a new queen for a new Ferelden. She seems to know what she’s doing, and she was there when the archdemon fell… can’t fault an active hand.” After a moment Aveline looks off to the side and lets out a soft sigh, “It’s just one more change, though. The real end for me was Ostagar.” She perks suddenly when Carver moves behind me to stand back at my shoulder, her emerald gaze hones on him as she hums, “What about you, Carver? You were there. Do you feel something similar?”

Carver looks at her and snaps back in a classic teenage pratlike manner, “No.”

“Alright then.” Aveline turns back to me, a new line hardening her mouth, “Bit of a tit, your brother.” 

“Isn’t he?” I jest with a lilted smirk thrown over my shoulder at him, granting me a swift glare. Feeling sufficiently caught up, I move back to the talk at hand, “Alright Aveline, what’s that job you mentioned?” I hum with a raised eyebrow in her direction. 

Aveline immediately jumps straight to business, “My patrols may just be empty walks in the dark, but there’s something big coming up, and I could use you. An ambush, probably for a caravan, but I don’t see any shipments that could line up… Doesn’t matter though.” Aveline shakes her head with fierce determination, “Highwaymen waiting for someone to rob? I’m putting a stop to it, my district or not.” 

I raise an eyebrow at this, “Your district or not?” Aveline merely regards me silently without answer, prompting me to tilt my head and press further, “Have you been nosing outside of your commission?”

Aveline begins to explain methodically, “I have contacts. They say that there is a lack of meat: somebody has been hiring. And one or two have been told to prepare for travelers.” She turns to look at the duty roster as she sighs, “If you want to be good at this job, you pay attention to what’s missing and when people arrange escape routes.”

I press on while crossing my arms, “Not to look a gift mabari in the mouth, but shouldn’t you ask your fellow guards to do this?”

“I will, if you sit on your hands.” Aveline replies tersely, “I’ll send my alerts and someone else will lead a patrol. But there’s profit and influence to be had; you’re my friend, so I’m offering.” 

She had me at profit. I jestingly smirk and swing my arms out wide, “Aww, Aveline! What a big heart you have!” 

She sends me a death glare in response, “Don’t make me regret it.” 

“Alright, alright, I’ll play guard for you, Aveline.” I surrender with my hands up, allowing them to drop once my message is across.

Aveline smiles in response and nods her head to me kindly, “I knew I could count on you.” She launches into a rhythmic report almost immediately, “They’re hidden up Sundermount, remote and rough, but we can make good time with a short cut on this side.” I turn as if to leave with a swift nod, eager to get the job done, that is until Aveline continues with a brisk, exasperated sigh, “Oh, and no, you can’t run off and do it without me. I trust you, but I have to be there. You’re acting on behalf of the guard.” 

“Oh.” I blink and then grin shyly, “Of course, no problem!” I joke with a wide grin as she rolls her eyes at me, classically. She bends down at her feet and picks up a shield, silver and tall with a blazing sword in the center, a templar shield: Wesley’s shield. “Do you want to go now?” I ask.

“Yes, if we want to get there before dark. It may take some time, and I haven’t got another patrol today.” Aveline responds methodically as she finishes gathering up her belongings at her feet, looks as if she has rations and potions already at hand.  _ Marvelous. _

We walk out of the barracks and without further ado we leave Kirkwall’s city limits and start heading up the mountain towards Sundermount to head off this caravan like we planned. The terrain in the Marches is different than in Ferelden; there, the biggest problems were mud and roots, but in the Marches it’s all hills. So many goddamn hills, it’s ridiculous. Oh, and the snow! They have snow up here, in small quantities, but it’s still there. Ferelden snow always muddied up, never got to be as pristine as I’d seen it in the last winter season here. It’s one of these very hills we were climbing when I decided to start a heart to heart with Aveline. 

“How have you been holding up? About Wesley?” I ask cautiously, watching Aveline as we march out of the city. 

“I hold his memory, but I know that he is gone.” Aveline responds simply, practically, yet devoid of much emotion.  _ Perhaps it’s still too soon _ , I think to myself, before she verbally pounces on me, “And what of you, with Bethany?” 

I bite my lip and quickly divert the subject, “Damn hills killing my knees.” 

“You sound like Gamlen!” Carver shoutes from ahead where he’d forged on with Varric. I want to shout back that he’s a nug-faced prick but Aveline elbows me in the side to drag my attention back to her, which hurts considering how heavily armored she is. 

“I’m being serious, Hawke.” She states firmly, now looking at me with a scolding expression much like Mother does when I make a sarcastic comment at the wrong time. 

I merely sigh and shrug in response. “I’m doing alright.” 

Aveline frowns at me with a furrowed expression before continuing to trudge on and up. It’s a while before she speaks again. “You can’t ignore facts of life, Arwen. Someday, you’ll have to face them, and if you don’t start practicing now, they will be too difficult to face.” 

I attempt a chuckle with a careless shrug, “The day I take something serious is the day that Asfaloth can fly.” I respond. I miss having him out with me… If we weren’t going to probably kill these guys I would’ve brought him along for the exercise and the fresh air. Aveline merely sighs and walks on. 

Before long, we came across a dusty field, prompting Aveline to touch my elbow with furrowed eyebrows, “This is the site. It must be around time for the ambush soon, ew made good time. There may be a few stragglers before we get to the main group, so be on your guard.” She draws her sword and Wesley’s shield with a slow, deep ring of metal as she investigates our surroundings, Carver marching on to do the same as Varric falls back to my side, producing his crossbow with a set in his brow. 

“Nice having you and your crossbow with us, Varric.” I murmur to him with an appreciative nudge as I chuckle, “Makes me look less bad for hanging back.” 

“Oh, there’s plenty where Bianca and I come from.” He attests as he holds the crossbow aloft. It’s unlike any crossbow I’ve ever really seen, on closer inspection, rather intricate and battle quality. 

“I… Bianca?” I blink, looking down at him and then at his weapon. 

“Ain’t she a beauty?” He hums with a fond caress across Bianca’s middle wooden bar, his warm brown eyes like rich soil in the evening sunlight. 

“She’s alright I guess, for a crossbow.” I joke with a dry smirk as we scan the surrounding area, moving through the underbrush when it could be found in a stealthy manner, but Carver and Aveline are not exactly the most stealthy of people, with all their clanking armor and big weaponry. 

“Why, you hurt me sir! You haven’t even seen what she’s capable of.” Varric cranks the middle clamp, causing the strings to draw with a low clicking noise. “How about this: I bet you I can fell more with her than you can.”

I raise an eyebrow at him incredulously, “You really wanna make that bet against  _ me?”  _ He  _ does  _ know I’m a mage, right? If I was any good at pyromancy, one well placed fireball could fall way more than a measly crossbow, no matter how unique. 

“You’ll never know unless we start tallying.” Varric wiggles a thick eyebrow at me with a playful, roguish smirk, “Since I might be following you around a while, I figure we might as well start keeping score.” 

I shrug.  _ You know what? Fuck it.  _ “Winner buys drinks.” 

“You’re on.”

We go quiet as we search for the highwaymen, though it doesn’t take long for us to find them. As we push through some underbrush we spot a handful of bandits loitering in a clearing, talking softly; they obviously were not expecting our presence as they look up and shout in alarm, drawing their weapons.  _ Clearly the bad guys.  _

Aveline holds up her sword and roars, “Face me, I stand for all of us!” Before she charges. I quickly scan her form and with some quick deliberation I summon a barrier in front of her in the form of a V, her charge shoving aside any baddies in her way to effectively make her a woman sized battering ram. Aveline realizes this swiftly and uses it quite effectively to toss aside the bandits like opinions. Not for the first time am I reminded of just how strong Aveline is; she could probably bench press me and I am not small. But that’s hardly surprising; I met her scissoring a fucking darkspawn’s head off like it was nothing but carpentry. A few go down from Varric’s crossbow bolts, which go off incredibly fast for a crossbow, and after each one that falls I can hear Varric as he shouts, “That’s one for me! Two! Three! How many have you got, Hawke?”

Occasionally, a bandit would see me and attempt to rush me, and that’s when they’d get thrown down a cliffside or something else convenient. Telepathy has its perks, and not getting my hands dirty is one of them, until suddenly a man jumps out of the underbrush at my side, punching me across the face. I duck back to avoid his daggers just in time as I stagger from the blow, I can feel the sharp rips of the daggers graze the leather armor protecting me as I telepathically rip his daggers out of his grip. He stares at his now empty hands as I hold the daggers aloft and away from me to dissuade him from fighting, to show him  _ hey you can run now.  _ But this fellow must be a real special kind of stupid, as he looked at me and turned to run away only to run himself into his own daggers where they were floating threateningly. Immediate guilt swells up as I release the knives and the man drops to the ground dead; I had meant to keep them there as a deterrent to question him, but he  _ literally _ ran into the knives!  _ There’s nothing I can do about that… but fuck.  _

I’ve had to kill a few people in my time with Athenril, but I never really liked it. I only ever cast spells with the intent to kill as a last resort, though I know a lot of death must have happened by accident from me throwing people around, either into water or off of cliffs and buildings. Still, they always left me feeling a little sick. Though this time, I jump a little when I hear Varric whistle, “That’s another for you, Hawke! Where you at?” 

“Uh… four!” I hastily recount the few I sent tumbling. It eases the ugly rearing in my stomach to think about them in these terms… even though I admit it’s a little fucked up. But it helps, so I start keeping better track as we make our way through each of the highwaymen camps.

Before long, we had beaten any and all bandits in the area; they had organized in such a way that if the first wave of bandits didn't succeed, the next had just a little more down the path that would have a greater chance of success.  _ Well, that did not obviously work out for them. _ I ensure, as I always do, that Aveline and Carver walk from the fight unscathed. It wore me out to do so, but no nosebleed, so that’s something. 

I bent down to loot the miscellaneous corpses from Aveline and Carver’s swords, and the man I’d accidentally killed with his own knives, once the deed was over, collecting just about 10 silver. They also were carrying some familiar signs that they were from the thieving gang the Coterie, but only a few; others bore sigils of local mercenary companies, but most had nothing. Other than that, I found no other information on where they came from, why they were here, or who they were looking for.

“Well equipped for bandits, but dead is dead, and the road is clear.” Aveline comes up beside me once I’d straightened, sheathing her sword after she’d wiped the blood off with a rag hanging from her belt. “Captain Jevon needs to know of this, so back to the barracks for your just reward.” She pats me on the back as our signal to go, leaving their corpses rotting in the sun. 

From there we began to pick our way back down the mountainside, the evening sunlight beginning to drill on our backs. Varric strikes up a conversation with Carver, I can hear him bemoaning something or another with some occasional drops of  _ prig  _ and  _ templar _ , but beyond that I don’t hear much. Not that I’m paying much attention anyway, as my thoughts are elsewhere.

Honestly, the money we could get from the job isn’t a huge concern for me at the moment; I just wish I knew who those bandits were working for. I’ve become much less squeamish about killing since working with Athenril, but I still didn’t like to do it unless I know who it was I was killing, and if it was for a good reason. Just existing as highwaymen seems like a cheap excuse for murder. It does help me feel better that at least Aveline approves; she  _ is  _ the guard, after all, so if being a highwayman is enough of a crime to be sentenced to death for then… 

I stop at a brief peak and look down and out onto the city of Kirkwall from a distance, the gold chains that adorned the city glittered in the golden light even from here. It still unsettles me, even after so long a year living here, that those decorations haven’t ever been taken down. I mean, I get it, history and all, but they were from when slavery was a common sight in Thedas, a monstrous time of monstrous deeds. It makes me wonder where the line between remembering and memorializing lies.

“How are you holding up?” Aveline asks me as we descend, striking up step beside me. 

I merely shrug, “That one bandit dealt a nice sock to my jaw, but I was just focusing too hard, I’ll be alright.” I touch the offending mark on my cheek, and I can feel a bruise beginning to blossom under the skin. 

The difficult part of being a mage in combat is I’m not very good in close quarters at avoiding things like punches; my telepathy makes me used to blocking. However, working on a field around Aveline and Carver is just trying, even if I am getting better at it. I can actually attack or move other things while maintaining barriers, which is something I couldn’t do before coming to Kirkwall without almost hurting myself, but working with Athenril fixed that quickly. I even started getting creative on some jobs with what I could do with my telepathy, but some things are too taxing. Causing a telepathic explosion from within a group of people was what caused me to pass out on that one job. 

“Let me know if you want ice when we get back to the barracks.” She pauses briefly as she flickers her gaze across my features, “Your… skills have improved.” Aveline pauses as she rested a hand on my back reassuringly. 

Since we got here, I trusted her not to report me to the templars; after running from the darkspawn, we were bound by our experiences, and were close because of it, she has my back and I have hers. More than once Aveline actually warned me when templars would be performing raids in Lowtown, when she could get the information. The line between the templars and the city guard in Kirkwall is thin, and frequently crossed in the name of apostasy… though usually only ever by the templars. 

“I try not to be completely useless.” I smirk snidely, and Aveline merely shakes her head at me in response.

It takes us some time to get back at the barracks of Kirkwall, the sun has set and night has fallen upon Hightown by the time we roll up. We head into the Viscount’s Keep then to the right to the barracks and find it to be a ghost town, all guards either asleep or on patrol. Aveline pauses and turns to me once we’re inside, “There’s Jevon’s office.” She points her squared chin to a closed door on the left as soon as we walk into the main common of the barracks, “Wait here while I explain our initiative.” Aveline then knocks on the door and enters when a masculine voice shouts within, closing it behind her. 

Varric, Carver, and I stand outside of the door for a long while, waiting while Aveline’s in Jevon, the Captain’s office. We can’t hear a word for a long while, though I’m desperately trying to listen in, until suddenly Jevon, or at least I assume it’s Jevon, began shouting so loud the whole of the barracks could probably hear. “I don’t know how they do it where you’re from, Guardswoman, but  _ I _ decide the patrols,  _ not _ you and your  _ whims! _ ” 

Varric, Carver, and I make awkward eye contact with one another as the shouting continues boisterously and harshly, “You may have been put up for lieutenant in your first year, but I will have  ** _no_ ** show offs in my command. Have I made myself  _ clear? _ ” There’s a bone chilling silence as the entirety of the barracks seems to be listening in. “Report to your post before I have you and your  _ Ferelden _ accomplices  _ jailed! _ ” 

Suddenly, the door rips open with a snap as Aveline comes raging out of the office with her fists clenched, tangible fire in her eyes; I’m happy I wasn’t in the way when she came barreling through otherwise the door would have broken my nose. The captain, Jevon, a tall man with too slicked hair and bags under his eyes came to the door only briefly before he scowls in my direction and shouts, “Brennan! My office, now!” With that, he slams the door shut. 

_ … So no payment I take it?  _

A few footsteps are heard as off duty guards come to life at the disturbances, granting us an aura of privacy amongst the noise. Aveline stares straight ahead as I move to stand beside her, slowly her eyes turn to meet mine as I murmur, “That sounds like lots of yelling for you doing him a favor.” 

“We killed a band of highwaymen. Why does it matter whose patrol it was?” Aveline asks softly, her eyebrows furrow as she whispers, “It’s not the first time he’s made me wonder like this. Something is very wrong.”

“So… how about we go and look to see whose toes we actually stepped on?" I ask amicably, tilting my head at Aveline. 

She’s silent for a moment in a moment of pension before she sighs, “... Let’s check the duty roster.” After a moment she closes her eyes and shakes her head slightly, softly muttering to herself, “Maker, what have I stepped into?” 

She’s right, frankly I feel it too. The highwaymen were all jumbled, some Coterie, some mercenary, but not bound to one entity, and they were prepared. Like, ridiculously prepared. Without me there, I don’t know if Varric, Aveline, and Carver could’ve taken them all down. All as in to say, there’s some bigger picture that we were missing, and somehow… the captain may be involved. 

Oh, I love drama. Especially when it doesn’t involve me.

We stride to the roster on the far wall and begin to scan for the location of the attack, Aveline grumbling under her breath, “Threatening my friends… not letting  _ that _ one go, Captain.”

Suddenly, a guard with short blonde hair appears behind us, running up with a big grin on her face, “Aveline! I owe you for clearing that ambush, you saved me a mess of trouble!” I blink and look around at where the hell she must have come from, the barracks seem empty. Though, now I see a few in half-armored form in doorways that quickly scatter into the rooms beyond the main chamber, probably people who were off duty listening in on the drama happening with the Captain.

Aveline blinks in surprise, “Brennan? That route was yours?” She asks this with a raised eyebrow, turning to face our new friend. 

Brennan, apparently her name is, in reply. “It was! Single patrol, I would’ve been dead for sure!" 

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this and turn to Aveline, muttering under my breath, “A single guard is hardly a patrol.”

The girl, Brennan, appeared to have heard me anyway as she replies with an amicable grin, “Usually we don’t need to, that route had been clear for weeks! The first we’ve heard out of it is your fight.” She points behind her, where I realized she just came out of the captain’s office, “The captain just reassigned me, after he heard what you did. I passed the satchel to Donnic for his patrol, I think he just left with it.” Brennan speaks animatedly, gesturing out the door of the barracks. I vaguely recall a guardsman leaving when we entered, but in truth I wasn’t paying much attention, too busy scanning the roster and watching Aveline.

“The satchel?” I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. 

Brennan replies offhandedly towards me with a dismissive wave, “Pay and order assignments. Captain has us run deliveries to the outposts on light duty.” Brennan pauses and furrows her eyebrows as she speaks, “It’s usually just an updated roster. Satchel today was heavy, though…” Brennan merely shrugs off her thoughts as she turns to Aveline again, grinning almost childishly, “But anyway, thanks again, Aveline! You’re a good one.” With that, Brennan walks away toward the barracks, taking off pieces of her armor as she goes as she is now off duty, apparently. 

I turn to Aveline with a raised eyebrow, and she to me. “The satchel gets heavy the same day that there is an ambush?” Aveline asks me softly, and I sense- no, I  _ know _ that she suspects foul play. 

Worried, I step closer to her, glancing at the captain's office briefly before whispering, “Do you really want to get caught up in this, Aveline?” I knew that Aveline’s tough, stronger than iron this woman, but this job - as much as she complains - is her life. She loves being a part of the guard, helping to keep order and whatnot. I don’t want her to lose what she loves. Not again. 

“If a guard has been put at risk, a good captain would want to know why. And if  _ he _ is not a good captain,  _ I _ want to know why.” Aveline replies curtly, her gaze turning dark as she sets her jaw. There’s no talking her out of this. Not that I would want to; I too don’t like the idea of potential corruption in the city guard; they’re the only real barrier between the templars just running the place. 

“So,” I start, crossing my arms, “Let’s go make sure that Donnic’s route is nice and quiet, shall we?” 

Aveline nods curtly, immediately turning back to the duty roster and murmuring under her breath, “Good man, Donnic. Donnic… Donnic… Donnic… I’ve got his route: a night walk in Lowtown. Let’s go make sure that his  _ quiet patrol _ stays that way.” 

Quickly, I gesture to Carver and Varric, who had been talking to some guard recruits, and fill them in as we leave the barracks in the direction of Lowtown. “The Captain’s dirty?” Carver asks incredulously before scoffing, “Figures.”

Varric scoffs and rolls his eyes as he shoulders his crossbow, “Hardly surprising for Kirkwall.”

“We don’t know what he is yet.” Aveline responds curtly, “Right now, let’s focus on finding Donnic and the satchel before we draw any conclusions.” 

Aveline takes the stairs from Hightown to the docks to get to Lowtown, and we follow in suit. 

By now the sun has long since set on Kirkwall and the night has begun settling in, luckily the street lamps have already been lit and the moon is full, so it’s quite easy to see. Aveline, Carver, Varric, and I walk at a swift march, looking down alleys for any signs of Donnic but the streets are deserted. They usually are in Lowtown, except of course by the Hanged Man, but all the patrons are either there drinking or have already stumbled home, it’s still too early for the hard core walkers of shame. 

Carver begins to say something when suddenly Aveline holds up a hand, gesturing to her ear for us to listen. I pause to listen and hear it, a loud, menacing whispering coming from an alley just beyond the Hanged Man. I move past Aveline’s still, listening form to poke my head curiously around the corner. 

A man I have never seen before with his back to us lies on his knees, though I quickly recognize the orange handkerchief of the Guard hanging around his neck. He’s on his knees because he’s getting the lights punched out of him by a thug in black while 4 others looked on, sneering and seem to be the source of the whispering. 

I don’t wait a second upon scanning the scene, I quickly spring to action. I focus my power and hurl the offending thug punching the guard, assumably Donnic, off his feet and using his body I knock him into the others like bowling pins. They shout in alarm as they fall; Aveline and Carver immediately come around the corner upon hearing the disturbance and charge with their weapons drawn. They finish off the bandits as they rise from their disarray and confusion, Varric only getting two shots off with Bianca before they lie dead in the streets. 

A minute later it’s over, and the first thing Aveline does is help a bloodied Donnic to his feet. He’s certainly dazed, with blood dripping from his nose and his eyes glazed over in confusion, however they focused in when Aveline helps him to his feet. 

"A… Aveline?” He hums deliriously, his eyes fluttering with uncertainty, “You… are a beautiful sight.” Donnic's eyes are wide, his expression starry as he stares at Aveline, his jaw is slightly agape. 

_ He definitely has a concussion.  _

I kneel down to examine the satchel Donnic had dropped from his side, digging through the materials within. 

“Guardsman.” Aveline replies warmly, a hint of a smile on her face. I have to look up for a brief moment just to see it when I sense it because there’s.. something in their tones that show they’re almost... suggestive?  _ But Aveline is about as sexless as a sword…  _

“I… I mean…” Donnic snaps his eyes a few times before he speaks with a far less dreamy expression, “I was on patrol, and… they came out of nowhere.”  _ Aaaand the moment’s gone.  _ I turn back to the satchel as Donnic speaks in a more professional tone, “I took down a few, but there were too many at once… The captain said this route was supposed to be quiet…” Slowly but surely Donnic’s expression seems less dazed and more focused, and I return to the task at hand of checking out the papers within the satchel as Aveline turns to look to me as well for what was within. There are several packets of paper, each with varying visual levels of official-ness. I flash them at Carver for his deliberation, who kneels next to me to read them. 

“The seal of the viscount.” He mutters, flipping through the pages with me, “Office details, city accounts…”

I purse my lips and let the papers not in Carver’s hand drop to the ground, “Very valuable to a guild of thieves.” I finish, turning to look at the bodies of the men who’d jumped Donnic. Two bear the mark of Coterie while the third the mark of the Red Iron, a mercenary group; just like at the ambush site outside the city, a mash of hirelings and Coterie. 

This spells bad news for Captain Jevon. 

“A sacrificial delivery with one of our own.” Aveline states with a harsh tone before she curls her lip, “Captain Jevon will answer for this.” She hisses with a dark look, I can’t help but shudder a little at her demeanor. I never ever wanted to be on her bad side, but not especially am I grateful to have her sword on mine. 

“Selling out his own…” I respond with a jokingly wistful tone, “Forget being a guard, Jevon should go into government.” I grin, chuckling to myself at my own joke as I stand, handing the satchel to Aveline. 

She takes it with a huff filled with misdirected ire, “Not now, Hawke. Jevon needs to see how justice works. This is going to the office of the Viscount: this will be known.” She states this with finality, and I believe her completely. 

We help Donnic limp his way out of the alley and toward the hospital in Hightown, where all guards are given treatment for potential injuries on duty. I’ve visited twice when I’d caught wind that Aveline had gotten hurt, but they were minor injuries from a scuffle with some Coterie so she was never there long. It’s needless to say that once I found out who they were, they learned never to fuck with the red-haired Ferelden on the guard; if she didn’t kill them, a crazy apostate would. She told me off for doing that because  _ of course  _ word about it got back to her… but I have no regrets. She watches my back, she better expect I do the same for hers.

On the way to the doctor, Aveline growls angrily to herself, “If the captain likes his thieves so much, let’s see how they welcome him in prison.”

Honestly, I’m very pleased that Aveline was able to uncover this scandal. She has been unhappy for a while, mostly I think it’s because she disagreed with Jevon; his methods, his actions, his general, shitty attitude about Ferelden refugees that stuck around after the Blight was over, all that. And now she has proof to depose him. That automatically spells a better career for her, and probably a better everything all around for Kirkwall to get rid of a shit city guard captain. 

“Hopefully his replacement will be better.” I offer. 

Aveline says nothing in response as we submit Donnic for treatment. We hang around only for a bit to ensure that he’s not going to die any time soon, but immediately after we return to Viscount Keep. It’s early in the morning by this time, and the adrenaline of the hectic day has begun to wear off. We started the day trying to convince Bartrand to sign us on, but now Carver and I are almost dead on our feet, Varric is getting to be no better. I tell the pair that they can head out to get some rest, which Varric gladly takes with a promise that I’ll see him at the Hanged Man sometime soon but Carver refuses, even giving me an indignant look of how  _ dare  _ I ask such a question. I think it must have been a pride thing because I can see his exhaustion as Carver’s eyes close even as we stand leaning against the wall when Aveline enters the office of the Viscount. We have to wait some time, as the Viscount had just awoken and needed to be briefed, or some sort of political nonsense something or another. When this is revealed I wait in the barracks with Carver while Aveline meets with the Viscount, catches him up, or whatever. Might not even be him, might be his… what are they called, seneschals? Not sure which she is actually speaking to. I don’t know how long it takes, but eventually the Viscount’s seneschal, a red haired fellow with a stupid looking Van Dyke, calls two guards into the office. 

Finally, as the morning sun crowds into the stain glass windows of the main hall of the Viscount’s Keep, the seneschal, Aveline, and the two guards all came marching out, appearing very official. They knock on the Captain’s door and enter without waiting for a response, I can see Jevon look up from his desk just before the seneschal closes the door behind him. 

Within, Carver and I could hear shouting as the captain complained at first about having people in his office, then second about having people ransack his office for personal information, and then third about being placed under arrest.  _ “How dare you! I am guard captain, I will not be treated like this!” _

The office door swings open as the guards drag him out and then down the hall, the whole time he’s kicking and screaming, flailing his arms towards the office, “You Ferelden  _ bitch,  _ this was none of your affair! I'll see you hanged!  _ Quartered! This will not stand!” _ I peer into the office to see just how Aveline’s taking this ruckus and I’m extremely pleased to see her standing with her arms crossed, smiling like she’s watching a parade.  _ Maker, bless her.  _

The seneschal looks at me when I poke my head in and gestures that I enter. I blink and glance at Carver, gesturing for him to follow as we walk into the Captain’s office. The previous Captain’s threats fade out of the keep, and although I’m excited for the potential payout I can’t help how exhaustion drags down my shoulders.  _ God  _ had it been a long day… night. Day and night. 

“We found a number of debts to… suspect peoples. Such poor character.” The seneschal's voice is slimy, that’s the best way for me to describe it. I am sure he’s a nice guy… or perhaps he isn’t… but his tone just rings  _ ‘I am more powerful than you and therefore am better than you.’ _ Really hard to like someone who sounds like that whenever they open their mouth, but luckily I was not being addressed, so I merely need to just stand next to Aveline with my arms crossed, making my presence as minimal as possible. “But you, Aveline Vallen,” The seneschal continues with a cock of his brow, “Have proven your loyalty and ability.” 

If Aveline is pleased by this remark she does not show it, she merely stands more upright and at attention to respond, staring straight forward, “The guard deserves better than him, messere.” You can take the Aveline out of the soldier by title, but you can’t take the soldier out of Aveline. Carver notices this as well, and seemed to mirror her posture. 

“Indeed.” The seneschal pauses, his gaze like that of a snake’s flitting across Aveline’s form before he purrs, “The Viscount would have  _ you _ put your care for the men into direct practice.” The seneschal continues without a change in his expression, meeting Aveline’s sudden, confused gaze, “ _ You  _ will assume the captain’s job.” 

Aveline stares directly at the man in shock, her eyes growing rather wide, “What?” 

“In due time, of course.” The seneschal amends, his arms draped behind his back as he began to pace slowly around Aveline, “There will be training, approvals. Months, at least… But who better to rebuild respect than the woman who exposed this… embarrassment.” The seneschal turns very deliberately, his high laced boots squeaking on the floor as Aveline digests this surprise promotion. The seneschal glances back at us briefly and purrs again, “Resolve any upstanding business, guardswoman, you are going to be quite busy.” 

As he leaves, Aveline turns to look at me with a wide smile, no teeth, but it’s the biggest grin I’ve ever seen her crack in our whole time together. She slowly turns away from me to look at the large desk in the Captain's office, and regarding her posture I realize that she probably she needs some time alone to process this, even if it is a joyous occasion. I pat her on the back gently, murmuring, “Congratulations!” before I turn and give her some peace to think. 

Outside, the seneschal is waiting with payment, and we were awarded five whole sovereigns for our part in the exposure. I’m shaken at how heavy it feels to hold that much gold.  _ Ten more jobs like that and we’ll be well on our way to pay for the fifty that Varric asked for.  _ I pocket the money and thank the seneschal before flashing Carver a smile, “Now we’re cooking. Let’s see what else we can scrounge up.” 

Carver almost immediately groans, “Can we do it after we sleep? Can we  _ please  _ just go get some sleep?” 

… 

I come back a few days later to check on how Aveline’s doing, digesting the situation and the surprise promotion. She’d told me when I saw her at the market that she had begun captain training, led by the seneschal, but besides that we hadn’t discussed it so I thought a visit was long overdue. 

I walk in and see that the name plate on the door has changed from Jevon to Aveline, and that for once, the door is open. I peer inside and see Aveline leaning on the desk, reading a report, but when she looks up I realized she must have sensed my presence as she waves me inside, “Training is time consuming, but I will always make time for you, Hawke. What’s going on?” 

I smile with warmth in my chest as I walk in and stand before her new office, looking around to see that most of the papers had been thrown out, making the desk look brand new in comparison. I can’t help but smile at Aveline with my hands on my hips, “Not much, just wanted to ask the hundred sovereign question: how’s Guard Captain Aveline?”

Aveline cracks a gentle, slightly mirroring smile, “Still sounds strange, doesn’t it?” She looks up from her report, setting it aside as she continues, “I have begun my training, and it is… difficult. But I am glad to be here.” Aveline looks down at her feet, her face turning slightly to the side as she murmurs, “Thank you, Wesley.”

I can’t help but hesitate at the sound of his name, unsure of what it means now that Aveline is invoking it. I play the safe route, “It speaks well of him that you keep his memory close.” I reply kindly, unsure of what else to say.

Aveline sighs and closes her eyes briefly, “I know that he is gone, but I couldn’t be here today without him. He’s at the Maker’s side, or he isn’t, but he will always be with me.” Aveline murmurs the last part quietly, her expression suddenly becoming very worn, and very tired. I can feel her pain coming off of her in waves, even though I’m nowhere near trying to scrape the surface of her mind, I can almost tangibly touch her grief like a woolen coat that’s too heavy for anything other then dense snow.

I frown and speak with a gentle voice, “You shouldn’t blame yourself for the Blight, Aveline.” I shift and lean on the desk beside her, so our words are entirely private even if someone were to walk in. 

She merely shakes her head with a firm set in her jaw. “I all but put him to the sword myself.”

I feel a sense of deadly calm wash over me. All but. Watching her expression I ask with deadly seriousness, “Do you blame me?” It’s even, to the point. 

Aveline responds in a low manner, her arms crossed over her chest, “I wanted to. I can even say that I did for a time.” For once my words fail to come me, I can’t find anything to say in response.  _ I did it for you so you could, so you could hate me instead of hate yourself-  _ it does not matter, as Aveline forges on with a heavy sigh, “I know in my head that it was right, but in my heart, that cut was cruel.”

We sit in silence for a long time, and worried about our stance I reach out with my power to get a sense of how Aveline’s feeling. 

She is… at peace. She isn’t upset by what happened to Wesley, not anymore anyway, and she is not disquieted, however she is still mourning. My intrigues haven’t helped, and continuing them wouldn’t either.

I decide to change the subject. “So, I told you about my fifty sovereign expedition drive… I doubt that the Guard Captain will have time to follow little old me around.” I say with a smile at Aveline.

She huffs, shaking her head at me. “Oh no, I’ll definitely still be with you in my free time. I will be designing the patrol schedule, and I don’t intend to lead from a desk.” Aveline turns to me with a warm expression all of a sudden, clapping a hand on my shoulder as she speaks with surprising veritas, “I couldn’t have done this without you, Hawke. Thank you for bringing me here… it’s where I should be.”

I can’t help but smile back at her in response. “Of course. Remember that next time you wanna smack me upside the head for a bad joke, alright?” 

Aveline does just that, softly enough to only startle me but rough enough to send the point across. I scoff and hop off the desk, shouting, “Rude!” 

Aveline merely grins at me with bright and happy teeth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huzzah, I did the thing!  
For Chapter 4-6, I designed it so that you can largely read them in whatever order you choose because you can recruit your friends in any order you choose, so to make this as game-typical as possible I made each companion recruitment story stand alone enough that you can read them in the order you want to. But there are some places where I make it a continuous flow because of timeflow reasons but it's still possible!


	4. Justice and the Lost Boy (Anders and Carver)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Hawke's on a mission to find fifty sovereigns, he's finding himself busy finding all sorts of jobs to complete to scrounge the money together. Varric approaches him about an opportunity to further sweeten the deal with Bartrand, but they'll have to do some detective legwork to hunt down them down. That, and things aren't exactly going swimmingly back home; Gamlen and Hawke's mother are constantly at each other's throats, largely because Hawke's mother is hounding Gamlen about Grandfather Amell's dying wishes and the state of their family name, and it's wearing down everyone under the roof... especially Carver, who is having none of it. It's nothing but a difficulty for Hawke, but if there's anyone who can handle it... perhaps it is he.   
\--  
Warning: Canon typical blood and violence

Somehow the Hanged Man smells just a bit more rank than usual when I walk in a few days after the quest for  _ how-the-fuck-are-we-to-get-a-fuckton-of-sovereigns _ began; Varric had asked for me to meet him here. What a strange dwarf he is, such a smooth talker… I could learn a thing or two from him, and I would like to think that that’s saying something.

I spot him sitting by the fire in the back room, basically his private office as he’s the only one ever back there… I think by design… with a pint at hand and his feet kicked up in a stool underneath the table. I come over and sit down across from him, and he immediately waves his hand to the waitress in the doorway, “Hey, another round for my friend here, put it on my tab.” Varric turns to me with a wily grin and sits up from his recline, taking a sip from his pint before he began to speak, “So, now that you’re here, there’s something I want to discuss, as partners: we need a good entrance into the Deep Roads.” Varric takes a long drink from his pint as a waitress comes around and slides me my own, Varric nods to her before he continues, “Bartrand had one lined up, but it turned out to be a bust.”

I look down at the swill as I retort, “Is there such thing as a bad entrance? Unless there’s a dragon sitting in it, I suppose…” My tone is full is full of snark as I lean my head in my hand, I staring down into the pint. Honestly, I was not a huge fan of drinking, and the beer at the Hanged Man is hardly beer at all, but like... rat droppings and dragon piss, if you’re lucky. I take a sip anyway, not wanting to be offensive for not accepting my future partner buying me a drink. It’s surprisingly not disgusting, not great, but having had the cheap stuff before, this is miles grander by comparison. 

Varric cracks a smile in my direction before he laughs heartily. After a moment he shakes his head as he takes another swig of his swill before he continues, “The Deep Roads span Thedas, we need an entrance that’s close to where we are going. Bartrand can get us down to the thaig once we are in, but its the getting in that we need.” 

“Alright, Varric. Have a plan, I assume?” I ask with a cocked eyebrow, tilting my head as I finger my pint on the table. 

“Naturally, messere.” Varric winks at me playfully as he does a mock bow. “I’ve heard rumors of a Grey Warden in the city that came in with the tide of refugees.” 

I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. A true Grey Warden? Carver had said that they had all died at Ostagar, and I remember vaguely of Flemeth saying that they hadn’t  _ all  _ died but the last few were ‘out of our reach.’ I shudder as I touch a hand to my chest, recalling our bargain, and what the cost was before it was struck. “You think they will have the information we need?” I turn my attention to Varric, and internally I wonder if I should have brought Carver with me. He gets all fussy about ‘getting dragged along’ to things, but I don’t want him to think I’m leaving him out of expedition business. I resolve to grab him after I finish speaking with Varric.

“Grey Wardens know everything there is to know about the darkspawn, and that includes the Deep Roads. It’s our only lead we’ve got so far…” Varric stares down at his pint, glancing at me with a glint in his eyes, “There is a woman in Lowtown running a recruitment office. She has been assisting the refugees from the Blight get settled in Kirkwall. I think that she will know where they are, if anyone.” Varric downs the last of whatever it is that’s in his pint and stands, apparently ready to go right now. I stand as well, glancing at the nearly full pint I had left behind as Varric waves me to the door. 

“Let me go see if Carver will join us before we go.” I say to him as we walk out of the Hanged Man. Varric agrees to wait outside while I head into Gamlen’s house just down the street from the alienage to see if Carver was willing and able to come. 

Inside, Asfaloth is rolling on his back on the floorboards, which would’ve caused Gamlen to swear at him for ruining the floors, but it seems that he is nowhere in sight at the moment. Carver is sitting by the fire, sharpening his sword when I come in. His black hair is swept away from his face, and his expression appears tired and anxious, like he’s waiting for something and is growing sick of it. He tenses when the door opens but relaxes when he sees it’s me and continues his work on refining his greatsword. 

“Hey, Varric wants for us to find an entrance into the Deep Roads. We’ve got a lead up the street with a Ferelden hireling office, want to come?” I ask at the door, grabbing my staff from where it lies beside Asfaloth. His ears are perked up at me intently, and I quickly add for his benefit, “Don’t worry, Asfaloth, I wouldn’t leave you behind.” 

He barks happily and leaps in a happy circle that leads to him chasing his own tail as Carver stands from his place by the fire. 

“I suppose so. Rather that than sit here and wait for templars to come and get us all.” He sighs, sheathing his sword and latching it onto his person. 

It’s then that Mother and Gamlen come into the room, arguing in a whirlwind of emotion I feel from the doorway. “I can’t believe that Mother and Father left me nothing!” Mother proclaims, her voice wavering as she twists her hands in her lap. Her hair has grown from dark gray to ash in the past year, yet she maintains the same fiery demeanor as usual. Gamlen, on the other hand, looks like he dropped dead but a spirit of rage possessed him instead. But he’s kind of always looked like that, though.

“You ran off with that Ferelden apostate, Leandra! You can’t stay the favorite when you do that! I stayed and took care of Mother and Father after you left, where were you during the funeral?” He hisses, crossing his arms as he turns away from her. 

But Mother has always been insistent, “The twins were only a week old!” Seeing this having no effect on Gamlen she changes gears, grabbing at Gamlen’s sleeve, “Where is Father’s will? If I could just see it…!” 

“I don’t have it, okay?! It’s still locked up in the vault!” Gamlen snarls in return, glancing over at where Carver and I stand awkwardly watching. I look to Carver and he at me as we realize that since we are in the room we are now involved, so we step forward to enter the conversation. 

“That seems a daft thing to leave behind.” Carver responds, his arms crossed as he watches Gamlen resist now that he was ganged up on all sides. 

Gamlen flushes and growls, “It was  _ old news!  _ It was read, it was put in the vault! No one needed it until your mother came crawling back!” Gamlen throws up a hand with a huff of frustration as Mother stands like a marble statue, her arms crossed and her gaze intense. I can't help but notice how defensive Gamlen is, facing away from Mother, crossing his arms, and now he isn’t meeting our gaze either. Grazing his surface level thoughts, I can feel his apprehension and worry, the only thing on his mind is  _ too close, they are getting in too close.  _

“That touched a nerve.” I comment, narrowing my eyes at Gamlen, “What are you afraid we’ll see in the will, Gamlen?” 

Gamlen goes on the defensive as he clears his throat, “The will is in the vault, which I lost with the estate, it is out of your reach.”  _ That didn’t answer my question, Gamlen. I see your bullshit, Gamlen. Mother’s been pissed about this will nonsense for the past few months now, Gamlen, why do you insist it’s so out of reach, Gamlen? _

“But who has the estate? Is it the Reinharts?” Mother asks with a raised eyebrow, biting her lip as her mind is evidently racing, I can tell without even extending my magic to her, “Perhaps I could speak to them…?” 

“It’s no one you know, Leandra. Just get used to Lowtown, sister, it’s where we’re staying.” Gamlen states with a commanding tone, suddenly and quickly turning and stalking out of the room. Asfaloth whines in the corner, sitting with his stubby tail attempting to be tucked between his legs as Mother sighs and turns to sit by the fire. I can feel that she needs space to think and digest this, so Carver and I step away, walking out the front door and standing in the hidey hole of the front walkway in front of Gamlen’s house to speak privately. Of course Asfaloth, terrified of being left behind, wedges his way through and comes out with us, panting and circling us before setting in a seat by the stairs leading to the main street. 

“Maker, what a mess.” Carver sighs as he shuts the door behind him. “I want to make things better for Mother, but some of what Gamlen says... I have a hard time hating him.” Carver murmurs this to me softly, his expression sympathetic as his chocolate gaze locks on someplace far away. “Playing caretaker for someone else’s life… stuck in their shadow… that’s no way to live.” He locks eyes with me and I can’t help but bristle, even with my magic to myself I can feel the comparative lines he’s drawing. 

“So, there it is.” I state dramatically, crossing my arms defensively. The  _ stuck in their shadow _ really hits home… sounding very very familiar to every complaint Carver’s ever had about having me as his older brother. 

He holds his hands up and shakes them a bit in tired surrender, “Look, if you want to join the fight over who lost the most, fine. But I never lived here.” Carver reaches into his pocket and yanks out a key, intricate, old and brass. He thumbs it with a frown, glancing at me, “Mother even gave me their old key and map of the estate to try and stir something. But I didn’t know Grandfather. Finding his will doesn’t matter to me.” 

I frown at him and lean on my staff, pressing my cheek against the wood as I think, staring at the key. He wouldn’t have hung onto it if he truly thought this was garbage. And frankly… I’m right there with him. Mother never cared about coming home until we got washed up here by the Blight, and all she’s been fixated on since being here is restoring that lost glory. But it’s better than what she  _ was  _ fixating on before we got here, which was hating and blaming me for… I’d just really like for her to get something she wants, and since this seems like what she wants, I want to get it for her to appease her. Now, the trick is convincing Carver. “You want a connection? This is where we will find it.”

“The once mighty Amells?” Carver sneers, crossing his arms as he looks off to the side with a curled nose of disgust, “A bunch of slavers are squatting on that dusty glory.”

I stare at him with muted shock but only for a breath. “What?”

Carver crosses his arms, speaking more lowly so that anyone inside Gamlen’s house couldn’t possibly hear him, “Uncle’s a chatty drunk. He got up to his neck and he signed everything over. That’s who has the estate.” Carver curls his lip and shakes his head angrily, “Apparently the most extensive wine cellar in Kirkwall is now a slave highway from the Undercity.  _ That’s _ our family legacy.” He hisses between his teeth in fury, I could reach out and touch his rage it’s so tangible around him.

Something dark and bitter coming from a place of social justice wrath riles like dragonfire in my throat. “I don’t know about you, but that makes me a little angry.” I growl in a low tone, meeting Carver’s eyes evenly. He didn’t want to find a connection with the Amells, sure, I don’t really either, but I want what’s best for Mother. But something that my brother and I both have in common? Telling slavers to go fuck themselves.

There was a kid back in Lothering, Jaundice, I believe, whose Father was from Tevinter, and apparently slavery is not only an okay thing there, it’s actively practiced, especially centered enslaving elves. Lothering was apparently their ‘summer home’ or something like that, because we never saw Jaundice often, but when we did, we frequently gave and received beatings because of how he treated what we first thought were his servants, but turned out later to be his slaves. I remember when we met him, he was just outside of the market by one of our fields where he had ordered one of his slaves, then we thought was his manservant, to steal some of our pumpkins that we grew. Carver and I had happened upon them after we were sent to town to get eggs or something, I don’t remember that. What I do remember is seeing a pinup child tell a grown man that he was worthless because he spilled _ our _ food on accident. It was so… unnatural and bizarre, it felt all sorts of wrong even before the morality of it hit. Carver and I stood up to him on principle, and it was gloriously antagonistic ever since. It outraged us to be so plainly inhumane to another person by accident of birth, or simple accident, and we strove to tell him that with every chance we had. My brother and I disagreed on a lot, but on this we were united. 

“We agree at last.” Carver remarks under his breath, his jaw tense as I rest a hand on his back. I have it now, a hook; channel his rage. This would at least get him into the mansion, and I’m confident that when we get there we will find the connection that he seeks. I tend to trust my gut on these things, and right now my gut is telling me to take the guts of slavers with gusto.

“Now, what should be done with a house full of slavers?” I ask, again in the same, low and dangerous tone. 

Carver growls right back, “The only thing that their kind deserves.”

“We agree at last.” I repeat.

Carver slowly takes a deep breath, meeting my gaze evenly, “Alright, brother. I’m with you. We’ll clear the estate from the Undercity up.” 

“That’s the spirit. You want to go now, or shall we go searching for our Grey Warden friend first?” I ask with a twist of otne, giving him the option to choose so he can’t go yelling at me later for dragging him all over the Marches. I also want to try and alleviate this whole idea that I’m in charge of everything, since apparently  _ that’s _ still a fire he stokes in his heart. 

Carver narrows his eyes pensively, the brown irises flickering around the front entrance before they settle on Asfaloth, who had now wedged himself between us out of excitement to go on an adventure. “The Ferelden office is just down the street, right? Let’s go there first and see if the Warden can be found before we kill some slavers.” Carver responds after a time, leaning down and petting Asfaloth’s large head. 

I grin at Carver amicably, “As a treat.” I kneel down and speak to Asfaloth in a baby voice,  _ “Whose a funny puppy? Yes, you are!” _

He promptly barks happily and leaps around us with a hyperactive tail nub wiggling his whole back half. I grin at Carver before we rally and head down the steps, moving on to the task at hand. I’m glad I convinced Carver to jump on board with this, it hurts me that Mother is hurting… this damn empathy thing really kills my vibes. 

Outside, Varric is sitting on a bench, fiddling with Bianca’s control switches. I still can’t get over how he named his crossbow. I know, it’s  _ weird _ , it’s have a strange relationship that I think is borderline sexual in nature but there’s absolutely no way I’m going to be saying shit about it. He smiles at us as he slings Bianca over his shoulder, gesturing down the road when we approach, “Good to see you, Junior.”

Carver immediately bristles, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Varric raises an eyebrow at the sudden defensive jab as he answers cooly, “Are you not the younger of the two Hawkes? I figured a nickname like that could tell you apart.” 

“Well, just because Arwen’s older than me doesn’t mean I’m his  _ junior.  _ That’s the  _ last  _ thing his ego needs.” He growls with a harsh look thrown in my direction. 

I counter with a shrug as I start to walk on our way, “Hey, it beats a nickname like ‘Hawke #2’.” 

“I would  _ so not  _ be second to you.” Carver counters, his ears turning pink as he gets riled. 

Varric waves a hand in an assuaging manner, “You know Junior, you’re thinking about this all wrong.”

“Whatever it is you’re about to say, I’m not interested.” Carver snaps back with a set in his shoulders as we walk. 

“I’m a professional younger brother. Trust me, the center of attention’s the  _ worst _ place to be.” Varric continues anyway without so much as a pause, “When things go wrong, and they always do, that’s where all the fingers point. Look at any kingdom in Thedas.” He stretches a hand out wide to illustrate an invisible map before he smirks, “You’ve got people who  _ warm _ thrones, and people nobody sees who do the  _ real _ work.”

Carver snorts, “So my brother is a king now? Just what he needed.”

Varric looks at him with a silent, slightly dumbfounded look before he sighs, “Point? Missing it. Ah, well.”

I nearly weep in joy when I see the office because it’s an excuse for this conversation to end. When we arrive at the office it’s full to bursting with people. Some look better off than most, but they all have the same Ferelden accent and the demeanor of people just trying to get by. A woman with salt and pepper hair and a stained apron is standing behind a desk at the back speaking softly to an elderly man and two children with a whole queue behind them, so Varric, Carver, and I get in line to speak to her. She has an aura of command in a room of desperate people that I can tell she’s got the intel we need. When we get to the front after about fifteen minutes, the woman turns to us with tired eyes raking our forms, “We’re doing all we can here, but we don’t prioritize people who have already found work. You’re going to have to wait until everyone else has been served.” 

“We’re not here for that, we are looking for a Grey Warden-” I respond swiftly just as the young lady in line jumps ahead and brushes me aside, looking very stressed, but she stills beside me when I mention the Warden. 

The woman behind the counter raises an eyebrow first at her then at me, “The Blight is over, and we all have bigger problems. What do you need a Grey Warden for?” I must say it’s a relief to hear a Ferelden accent, even if it’s in a suspicious tone. Free Marchers have a more rugged tone of speak, Ferelden is more smooth and distinct in each phrase. It’s easier to listen to, and I daresay it makes me a little homesick.

“I’m on an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information he can provide will save dozens of lives.” I reply earnestly, being sure to speak in a low register so that not all of the people in the room can hear me. I don’t want Bartrand to rip my head off because a load of desperate refugees heard about the expedition through my carelessness.

“Be that as it may… The templars in this city are not like how they are back in Ferelden.” The woman replies in the same low register, her brow knitted in worry. 

I beg my heart to still. “Templars? So this Warden is a mage?”  _ An apostate?  _

“What’s it matter what he is?” The woman answers defensively.

Behind me the young woman who had tried to bully past me pipes up, “The Grey Warden is a healer, isn’t he?”

The woman behind the counter eyes the lady behind me as she sighs, “Yes… and he’s busy enough without having to answer fool questions.”

“Then I’ll be sure only to ask smart ones.” I counter with a bright grin.

The woman merely glares at me, “I do not joke, serah.”  _ Yeesh, tough crowd. _ “But.. I suppose that his secret it not mine to keep. Anders has been free enough in his services.” She leans forward and speaks to us in a low register, “Those in need know, to find the healer, look for the lit lantern in Darktown.” 

_ Ah… Darktown. Of course he’s in Darktown.  _

Kirkwall was set up into three total districts, though only two officially: Hightown, Lowtown, and Darktown. Hightown is where the nobility, the guard, the dwarven merchant’s guild, and the viscount live. Needless to say, I don’t go there all that often. Lowtown is where the Hanged Man is, as well as Uncle Gamlen’s hovel and the alienage, where elves lived. I have never set foot in there, but Father told me about them; that they were barely an excuse for homes, and elves are required to live there and nowhere else. It makes my soul quake in anger, but… maybe it isn’t as bad as they said. I have never actually been after all. 

Then, there is Darktown, the sewers that run all beneath the city, and that is primarily where most Ferelden refugees ended up. Athenril, the Coterie, and other smugglers tend to do business there as Johnny Law doesn’t end up down there often, however the templars do. They were there nearly every time I was, looking for hiding Ferelden apostates fleeing the Blight even after all these years. The templars seem to smell desperation - and piss - and think apostates have got to follow. Fucking morons.

I nod my thanks and wave amicably as I exit the office. I noticed the young woman right behind me as she practically sprints down the street, nearly toppling me in her rush. Before I could question why or be like  _ hey I’m walking here _ , a group of men, ruggedly armed, appeared from a side alley next to the building. Carter tenses beside me and gripped his sword hilt, and Varric pauses to touch an arrow at his hip. 

One man with a Ferelden accent hisses to us with a hand on a knife in his belt, “Hey, we heard you in there, asking about the healer! We know what happens to mages in this town, and he is doing us Fereldens’ a lot of good! We can’t let you run to the templars!” 

Before I can speak a word to defend myself, Carver steps right into his face and snarls back, “You want to protect him? Watch how to talk to other Fereldens before the templars come to get us all!” 

The man is visibly surprised, first by our accents and then by, well, Carver. I can tell from his thoughts that he’s practically shouting at me his head is so unguarded. “Oh, you’re Ferelden? Maker, your clothes, I figured you for a Marcher, sorry! Long live the rule of our Queen Anora!” The man salutes roughly at us, before he and his men disperse back into alleys and into the office. 

I exhale in relief and glance over at Carver, “For the first time ever… thank you for verbally stepping in, Carver.”

“Yeah well, no need for you to be a prick about it.” Carver huffs in response, however his eyes are alight and surprisingly warm. “Let’s just go find this healer.” Carver has always had the temperament of a frothing mad bronto, but it seems to have worsened bit by bit the longer we stayed in Kirkwall. I don’t know why… he never talks about his fucking feelings, though I suppose I’m no better. I pat his shoulder to attempt to soothe him, and once we’re ready we set out for Darktown. 

If you don't mind the smell, Darktown is not the worst place to live. Carver and I were fortunate not to end up down here unless we were working a job for Athenril. Many others were not so lucky, and as we begin our descent the tents and sacks that people call home line the sewer halls, the people within peering out suspiciously before returning into darkness.

We walk down the dimly lit halls for a while, many of the Darktown residents completely ignoring our presence, continuing to barter or talk among themselves. It’s a rather close knit community, I suppose hardship does that to people. The only light within the stone halls is from the grates over our heads, of the sun shining overhead. I shudder to think at how dark and cold it must get in the night. I figure they call it Darktown for a reason. 

We spot the lantern hanging outside of a set of double doors, just past a set of stairs leading up. It swings apprehensively, as if its presence would vanish within the moment, and I give Varric a knowing look. He nods, the lantern’s little flame dancing in his pupils as he gestures to it, “Let’s hope the Warden has what we need.” 

We turn and look at one another in recognition before we enter quietly. 

Inside, a man stands with his back to us, leaning against a pillar on one hand while a young woman, the one from earlier actually, comes peeling out of the room pulling a small boy, her little brother, I can hear from her screaming thoughts, out the door. She glances at us briefly as we enter but quickly keeps her head down as she trots out of the room, speaking softly to the boy in words I cannot hear. 

As we approach the man, I noticed he is wearing strange robes with many feathers attached to the pauldrons and dark blue leather draped over his shoulders. He has dirty blond hair, tied back into a tail, and a single gold earring in his left ear. He whirls on us rather suddenly, I tense when I spot the staff he was hiding behind the pillar appear in his hands as he shouts at us, “I have made this place into a sanctum of healing and salvation! Why do you threaten it?!” 

I blink and glances at Carver, who grumbles under his breath, “Great, another delicate mage flower.” 

I resist the urge to elbow him as I meet the man’s amber eyes, avoiding the staff entirely. I garner my mental defenses around myself before I reach out mentally to see what I can’t gleam from him, but all I can gather for the moment is just purely raw fear and anger. So much anger… 

I’ve been quiet for too long. “Er... I thought the Wardens were more about doom and gloom, rather than healing and salvation?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, trying to diffuse some tension. 

It works just a little, as the man's hands loosen their grip and he let his staff rest on the ground. I can sense his magic from where I stand, no more potent than any other mage I have met, which have now been one or two since working for Athenril, but there is something... else. Something deeper, I can’t quite place it, but I don’t want to search within him without him being alerted that I myself am also a mage. One of the many things that Father taught Bethany and I was how to hide our magic, first and foremost, and sometimes that meant from other mages. It’s harder because mages naturally sense magical energy, but if you lock it away into a deep part of yourself, in a box, only mages searching for magic will find it. Right now it’s coming in handy, so I lean more against my staff to make it seem more like a walking stick. 

“Did the Wardens send you to bring me back?” The man asks, his lip curling as he set his staff into the cobblestones with a sense of finality, “I’m not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat!” The Warden, I believe Anders the woman had said, shakes his head with disappointment as his voice turns to reminiscing, “Poor Ser Pouncelot… He hated the Deep Roads.”

I blink several times.  _ Andraste’s tits, I love this dude.  _ I can’t help but let out a laugh, “I-I’m sorry, you had a cat - named Ser Pouncelot - in the Deep Roads?” 

“He was a gift!” Anders defends, his eyebrows furrowing in memory, “A noble beast. He almost got ripped in half by a genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose, drew blood too!” Anders smiles fondly before he seems to realize at this moment that he, in fact, had no idea who I was and may not want to talk with said stranger about his badass cat. He focuses back on me with a returning frown, but apparently can’t resist from telling me where the impressive beast ended up, “The blighted Wardens said that he made me too soft; I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine.” 

Now I’ve always been a dog person - hehe - but I can find myself sympathizing with this man and his cat. I would be just as, if not more upset if I had to give away Asfaloth just because he ‘made me too soft’. I lean on my staff, a habit I have developed to convince people that it’s just for walking rather than any magical conduction as I continue next, “So, you came to Kirkwall just to escape the Grey Wardens?”

Anders raises an eyebrow at me, “You say that like it’s a small thing… Yes. I am here because there’s no Warden outpost, no darkspawn, and a host of refugees to blend in with…” He pauses and looks off to the side and murmurs in a lower, secretive manner, “And some reasons of my own.”

Avoiding  _ that _ suspicious answer, I jump to my next question, “Here I thought joining the Wardens was for life?” 

Anders shrugs and begins to explain, surprisingly rather politely and amicably, “That’s only partly true. The hopelessly tainted by the darkspawn, and plagued with nightmares about the Archdemon part don’t go away. But, it turns out if you hide well, you don't have to wear the uniform or go to the parties.” He tails this with a playful grin that makes his amber eyes glimmer in the low light of the clinic.

I crack a smirk. This guy had my sense of humor, and it’s frankly a relief to see, especially after the whole  _ healing and salvation  _ thing. But having the delightful banter isn’t what we came here for, so I get down to business, but with the same playful attitude because  _ I’m Hawke, I gotta. _ “I need some information about the Deep Roads, information a Grey Warden would have. Care to share?” I ask with a cheeky grin, tilting my head to the side.

Immediately Anders narrows his eyes at me suspiciously, “Are you kidding? You can’t imagine what I’ve come through to get here. I am not interested…” Anders suddenly pauses, touching a finger to his lips in thought. I watch with a raised eyebrow before he speaks in a slow manner like he’s tasting his words, “Although… a favor for a favor.” He comes out of his thoughts to look to me with a sudden hidden reservoir of thought shining through as he seems to stare into my soul, “Does that sound like a fair deal?    
You help me, I’ll help you.” 

I wonder if this has anything to do with the ‘reasons of his own’ thing Anders mentioned earlier. I don’t want to risk brushing his surface level thoughts in worry that he will feel my magic and my presence - I learned that lesson with Flemeth - so I try not to get my hopes up too high, in case it’s something like… blow up the Chantry or something crazy. 

So I nod with a defensive stance, “That sounds reasonable, depending on the favor.” 

Anders seems to nod in understanding a tad slowly, pacing a bit in front of me as he speaks, “I have maps of the Deep Roads, but they come with a price.” Anders watches me uncertainly before he steps much closer to speak in a lower register, “I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend… A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows.” His voice is raw and tinged red in fury that I can feel with even with my magic locked in my chest as he continues with a hard look that’s stripping my sight of light, like he’s trying to see into what makes my soul tick. I know he isn’t trying to rummage in my head because I’ve warded my thoughts and memories, but damn it looks like he’s trying. “The templars learned of my plan to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps." 

I feel Carver tense up beside me, ready to lash out, so I shoot him a look to settle down. He no doubt does  _ not _ like this idea, at all, and frankly I’m right there with him. If we are caught, not only would I be sent off to the Gallows, but that would certainly be the end of our expedition partnership thing. I know it’s a bad idea to even  _ think _ about helping Anders, especially for selfish reasons, but… Anders has  _ maps.  _ That’s even better than verbatim. These would be priceless to Bartrand, if he really is struggling with finding an entrance, so it might just be worth it.  _ Might _ be. 

“Tell me about your friend.” I question, my fingers digging into the wood of my staff. This is  _ so  _ going to go badly, I can feel it. 

Anders seems open to the question, his demeanor does not change when I ask, “His name is Karl Feckler. He was sent here from Ferelden when Kirkwall’s Circle required new talent…” Anders pauses, biting his lip, “His last letter said that the Knight Commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances in court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes! I told him I would come.”

I feel a chill run up my spine at the thought of the Rite of Tranquility. Father said it’s some sort of ritual the templars do that severs a mage’s connection to the Fade, the world of dreams, which also severs their ties to their emotions and some of their memories... the only thing Tranquil has once they are made so is a body, with an empty soul within. I’ve only met one Tranquil in my whole life, a man named Glenn who was traveling with some Circle Mages through Lothering for a time. Everyone else was like  _ oooh circle mages outside the tower, let’s go gawk,  _ so for obvious reasons Bethany and I didn’t do that, but Glenn caught my attention. Reading his mind… it was like there was no mind at all. Just a strip of paper that wrote his thoughts that came out of his mouth, then the ink would disappear to say something else. He was so… devoid. He had no fears, he had no worries, but he knew no happiness, only memories of what it’s supposed to feel like. Despite Bethany’s attempts to assuage me I went and tried to talk to him, because I didn’t understand what being Tranquil meant and I thought he must have been some special type of mage. When I asked him about where he came from, I could see that he remembered his past as a series of events rather than things that happened to him, and that scared the shit out of me. 

It was for that reason that I never dared to enter a Circle, even after Father died and it was just Bethany and I. We were too far into the whole apostasy thing, and I was scared of this thing that Father talked about, something the Circles did called a Harrowing. It’s where templars deliberately force you to be tempted by demons to see if you will accept their offer. If you fail, they make you Tranquil if they don’t just outright kill you first. Only mages who are beyond help, or cannot not control their powers are supposed to be made Tranquil after their Harrowing as Father said, so hearing this from Anders about Kirkwall's Circle scares me half to death. 

“The Circle, a prison? In a place called the Gallows? How can that be so?” I rumble sarcastically, hoping that this hides the fact of how freaked out I am. 

Anders merely scowls, apparently taking my question literally. “Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen were made Tranquil just this year.” I swallow dryly as Anders continues with a hard edge, “The more people you ask, the worse the rumors become.”

I try to change the subject back to what we’re  _ supposed  _ to be talked about, at least so that this mage doesn’t see my discomfort. “What do the templars know of your plans?”

Anders frowns with his amber eyes passed downward, “I don’t know. I had been exchanging letters with Karl through a maidservant in the Gallows… Then the letters stopped coming.” Anders’ eyes stick to his boots as an expression of fear flashes across his features, and something else. Something deeper, a fear that goes beyond worry about a platonic friend. I get the feeling that Karl is more than just a friend. 

“So, how do you plan to break him out?” I ask, leaning more heavily on my staff to give it more of an appearance of a walking stick. I’ve even practiced giving myself a slight limp, I’m rather proud of myself, but sometimes Carver would give me a dirty look when my acting gets over the top. 

“Well, I’m hoping it won’t come to that. I sent Karl a message to meet me in the Chantry tonight. Maker willing, he will be there, alone… But if there are templars with him… I swear I will free him from them, whatever the cost.” Anders states with a firm gesture of his hand, his eyebrows knit together in worry. 

It may be just because he’s standing so close to me, but he is not very good at hiding his emotions, nor his magic, for that matter. As his emotions well up inside of him, so did his magic, responding to his feelings like a tide pulls water. There is that something else though, feeling him lashing angrily I allow my magic a little outside the box so I can investigate him when I feel something bright and deep inside, it reminds me a bit of the Fade. It’s gone before I can examine it further, at least not without letting Anders know what I was up to. I focus back onto his features, his golden-brown, determined eyes. 

“So… You want to make your friend an apostate?” I ask with a frown, raising an eyebrow at Anders. 

He immediately frowns in answer. “That’s such a weighted term… Yes. Andraste said that magic is meant to serve man and not rule over him, but I have yet to find a mage who wants to rule anything. It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men.” 

I bite my lip and raise an eyebrow, glancing over at Carver to gauge his rage levels. He’s standing facing the door like he’s preparing for the templars to come charging in at any minute, and honestly, I’m with him. There is no way a man would exclaim something that went against the templars in this city and they not knowing about it… right? Perhaps they’re more stupid than I thought, if Anders has been here long enough to set up a clinic and everything. 

When I turn back to Anders I can see his apprehension spelled in his shoulders, his gaze digging into mine, I can tell seeing what I have to say on his position and preparing for the worst. “Forcing slavery on mages isn’t the way to prevent another Imperium, I suppose.” I reply, shifting my weight to one foot as I meet Anders’ gaze. His expression is entirely altered, surprised rather than defensive. I wonder if I revealed too much, that now that I had given him some ground in appealing to him Anders would reach out and try to sense my own magic, so I make ssure to keep it locked away. 

“That is… not the response I usually get.” Anders murmurs, his voice suddenly soft like he can’t believe it himself when his gaze like honeyed wine caresses mine, “Perhaps we will work well together after all.” 

I can feel Carver’s eyes on the other hand boring holes into my back, but I continue speaking like I can’t feel his  _ what the fuck is wrong with you  _ ire coming off of him in waves, “Alright, Anders, we have an accord. I would help any mage in these circumstances, if I could.” 

Anders raises an eyebrow and chuckles, brushing some stray hair from his pony tail behind his ear, “Now you are just trying to get on my good side.” His smile slowly fades as he squares his shoulders, “I welcome your aid. I have already sent word to Karl to meet me at the Chantry tonight. Join me there, and we will ensure that no matter who is with him, we will all walk away free.”

I nod, biting my lip worriedly as I turned to make my leave with Varric and Carver at my side, feeling Anders’ eyes on my back. I don’t feel any mental invasions, but I keep up my mental defenses, just in case. I close the door of the clinic behind me, just in time for Carver to immediately begin a tirade, “Arwen, do you have a death wish or are you really that stupid? What is the point of you going on this goddamn expedition if we get caught and dragged to the Gallows trying to get there?” 

“It’s our only option, Carver, he has maps.” I reply tiredly, rubbing my temple as I move to walk on, “I doubt the templars will actually be there.”

“But what if they are?” Carver grabs my staff to prevent me from escaping the conversation, yanking me back to face his ire.

So I whirl on him and pull it from his grasp, huffing in return, “Then we’ll deal with it then!” He continues to glare daggers at me, flushed red to his neck so realizing that I’m not going to be able to dissuade his fears I try to divert his attention instead, “Come on, let’s go kill those slavers we were talking about and you’ll forget all about it, trust me.”

“Oh boy, slavers?” I looked down at Varric, having almost forgotten his presence, who was peering into the uncertain lighting of the hall. “I guess I didn’t have anything better planned.”

Carver glares at me with such ferocity I swear if he were magical I would burst into flames. Finally he spits out, “Fine… but this isn’t over.” He brushes past me and stalks down the hall, pulling a map from his pocket with a heavy scowl on his expression, I guess the map Mother gave him that’ll hopefully point where to go to enter the Amell wine cellar. I’m certain I won’t hear the end of it, but I’m grateful to be spared the lecture for the moment when I’m trying to conserve my energy to sling some spells. Carver has what’s best for me in his heart, I know that… but he is a damn prick about it sometimes. I know this is risky, but no risk no reward, right?

Carver led us through the tunnels, leaving most of the tent cities behind us. There’s a door into Amell wine cellar that begins just a blocks away according to the map, and we find it nestled away with a ladder leaning against a pile of fallen stones. Once we arrive Carver gazes up at a ladder that leads to a trap door over our heads before he turns to me with a hand on his sword, “You ready, brother?” 

“I’m always ready for a little murder.” I joke, grinning as Carver rolls his eyes and makes his way up the ladder. I follow after with Varric at my tail. 

Carver slowly lifts the trap door up top and peeks into the room, he’s silent for a time as he surveys the inside before he swings open the trap door all the way and hauls himself up inside. I climb up right as he reaches back down to grab my hand and help me in. 

The inside of the cellar is so dusty that any antique shop would be jealous. There’s a few racks where wine would have been, but judging on the amount of smashed wood and broken glass, the wine has long been drunk by the slavers. There’s a door on the other side of the room and no signs of life, so I make my way over once Carver and I help Varric inside, kicking the ladder out of the way and closing the trap door behind us. 

I open the door and inside two men in black garb are sitting in another dusty room, playing cards at a slightly-less-dusty table. When the door opens they spot us and gasp, pushing back their stools, but with a grip on my staff I silence their cries for help, telepathically stuffing their throats with invisible socks as Carver rushes them. Choking and spitting, I strike one in the head while Carver runs the other through, ending them swiftly. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Hawke.” Varric says as we step over their corpses, “Seems to be… unhealthy.” 

I snicker and flash him a knowing wink, holding up a finger, “One for me. Do try to keep up, Varric.” 

We march steadily up the estate, clearing room after room of slavers, some with more than others but all in all we find them easy to handle. After some time, we stumble onto an abandoned room in the cellar, filled with boxes but no slavers. Carver and Varric kept going to find more slavers to kill, but I found myself wanting to explore a little, so I stuck around and poked through the belongings to see if I couldn’t find anything interesting. There are boxes and chests piled high throughout the room, and as I investigate I accidentally knocked over a picture frame with a loud clang. I wince and quickly set it back quickly, and looking at its surface I find that it’s a portrait of Mother, probably from decades ago. I let it alone and poke through several boxes until I find a dusty chest on top of a crate, opening it there’s a bunch of stacks of letters within. None seem significantly important, but one stood out to me because it was written to my Father, right at the top,  _ Dear Malcolm Hawke _ . 

_ That’s weird already, this was the  _ ** _Amell_ ** _ estate. _ I pause to read the letter; it was written by a mage within the Kirkwall Circle about the events that transpired after Father’s escape. It mentions someone in particular, someone that sounds like they were interval to Father’s escape but with no name that I could read in my rapid skimming. I pocket the letter to investigate later before moving to rejoin Varric and Carver for some more lovely murder time to bond over.

Finally, after spending some time in the extensive wine cellar, we enter a large room, a rather bulky and heavy door on the other side leads up a flight of stairs. A man stands before it; he wears a tall cowl and flowing robes, and his mustache is more haughty than his demeanor, if possible. Most notably I feel magic coming off of him in torrential waves, almost as if he is proud of the power he displays and wants the whole world to feel it.  _ Oh shit, they’ve got an apostate.  _

Carver draws his sword as the man begins to curse in an unfamiliar accent, “You think that you can stop us? You foolish…” 

Luckily, my brother doesn’t allow him time to finish his threat, striding forward with his sword raised. “Die, slaver!” Carver snarls and hacks downward his sword, but it blunts off the mage’s robes like it’s made of the strongest steel. I reach out and sense the mage is empowering an aura around him to protect himself. Varric rights Bianca and loads his bolts, taking careful aim as Carver occupies the mage’s attention. I flurry to come up with a way to come to Carver’s aid. I could either harden his sword and hope it was stronger than the mage’s defenses, or I could try to take on the mage directly, distract him from defending himself to give Carver or Varric an opening. 

That’s probably the best method. Glancing to my left and right I see crates lining the room, probably full of junk the slavers deemed unworthy of stealing. I use my power to grab a few crates, mentally throwing them at the mage. He dodged a swipe of Carver's sword, who growls in frustration, only to get smashed from the side by the crate, making the mage stumble as the wood snaps and cracks. As he goes sprawling, Varric shoots a bolt through his skull, splattering blood against the wall. The mage lies dead lying amongst the shattered remains of the crate. 

I exhale in relief, releasing my grip on my staff as Varric whistles, “I’m gonna call that one mine for the final kill… Meaning you’re buying drinks tonight.” He flashes a wink in my direction as I roll my eyes in a playful manner. 

Carver turns to me, huffing as he sheathes his sword. “Good riddance.” He pulls out the map, now worn from his constant thumbing, before he points to the large door up the stairs. “I think this door is the vault. Let’s see what Grandfather left behind and get out of here.” He grumbles. I’m a little surprised he wants to go in there, since he said before he didn’t care about the Amell legacy, but perhaps he was listening after all when I told him this is where he could find a connection. We both step forward to try the door, finding that it’s locked pretty tight. Luckily, so tight that the slavers seemed unable to get in, but unluckily for us… 

“Curse it all, it’s locked.” Carver growls. 

Varric strides forward confidently, “Allow me, messere.” Carver raises an eyebrow and lets the dwarf pass, we watch as he peers into the lock and pulled out a set of lockpicks. He picks the door with delicacy, and before long the lock snaps open with a croak. Varric straightens and grants us a charming smile as he steps aside for us to open the door with a deep bow of accomplishment. 

Rust flakes to the ground as the door gives away, grinding open to a dark and desolate room. I whistle and give Varric a fist bump as Carver pulls a set of matches out of his pocket and lights one with a firm strike, firelight softly illuminating the space. The room is not very full, mostly chests of molded papers, so we all began to rifle through them to search for Grandfather’s will. We are searching for several minutes, rifling through decades old parchments as dust clogs our lungs. Finally, I pull a rather fresh, compared to the rest at least, parchment with a date from about eighteen years ago, around the time that Grandfather would have died - that makes sense, if Bethany and Carver were only a week old. I read the first few paragraphs to make sure that this is indeed what we are looking for and find lists of Grandfather's possessions… before it goes to the good stuff. Some real good stuff that I’m suddenly quite excited to share with Mother, and Gamlen in particular.

“Got it.” My voice echoes in the dusty chamber. Carver comes over my shoulder to look at the document, his finger tracing the lines of writing. 

“So it is, Grandfather’s will. Let’s just take it back to Mother and be done with it.” He sighs, and although he sounds offhanded with it he takes the parchment from me to read himself. 

“No point delaying the news.” I reply with a slight sigh, gesturing to Varric that we’re heading out. 

“This should be interesting.” Carver murmurs under his breath as we walk out where we came in, his eyes on the parchment. I use my magic to put the ladder back in its place so we can descend down and then close the trapdoor behind us. 

...

Varric agrees to meet up with us later that night for drinks and splits off as Carver and I head to Gamlen’s. When we arrive back at the house, the two of them are at it again. “I’m just saying… blood is blood and all, but you  _ are _ taking advantage of my hospitality! I just think that its only fair that you should make a... monthly contribution.” Gamlen begins, tentatively. I wonder if he began by complimenting Mother's hair, that’s at least a little more honest.

“You sold my children into  _ servitude _ , and now you are asking me to pay rent?” Mother gasps in response, seemingly completely astonished by this request with a furrowed, enraged brow. 

Gamlen merely mumbles nervously, “Just… a little something toward food?”

I decide that now is a great time to interrupt, “Hey, Gamlen! Guess what we found!” I grin brightly as I gesture to Carver, who holds Grandfather’s will. 

Gamlen looked at the parchment, then at Carver and swallows as my brother relays the information. “Grandfather left everything to Mother and us. I guess he had some sense after all. See for yourself.” Carver steps forward and hands the will to Mother, who looked on with an owlish gaze. She takes the paper gingerly, her eyes as wide as fists as she devours the words on the page, scanning it left to right faster than I’ve ever seen. 

“I… uh… I should…” Gamlen takes a slow step back, biting his lip nervously.

Mother turned in his direction, her eyes still scanning the page. “ _ ‘To my daughter, Leandra, and all children born of her: the estate in Hightown and all associated revenues’ _ ...” She reads slowly, tasting her words like she was parched and the will is water. 

“Check out the part where Gamlen is only left a stipend… to be controlled _ by you.” _ I reply with a feeling of self satisfaction, watching as Gamlen grows more and more uncomfortable as Mother read on. 

Finally, Mother looks up from the will and peers at her own brother with an expression of soft betrayal, “Gamlen… how could you?” 

“You’re the one who ran away, Leandra!” Gamlen suddenly snaps, pointing at her accusingly, “What happened to  _ ‘love is so much more important than money’ _ ?” 

“It is!” Mother sighs, exasperated. 

Gamlen throws his hands in the air, his breath coming in rasps. “You didn’t even come home for the funeral!” 

Mother sighs with a hint of indignation, “I told you, the twins were a week old!” 

“We all have our burdens. Mine was looking after the life  _ you _ abandoned. How long was I supposed to wait?” Gamlen growls, glaring at Mother with a set jaw. 

I crack a grin, “I doubt you let the ashes get cold.” 

“I took care of Father! I  _ stayed!”  _ Gamlen cries, crossing his arms as he continues in a broken tone filled with misdirected wrath, “But all he could talk about on his deathbed was  _ Leandra!” _ Gamlen turns to Mother to continue but when he sees the shell shocked expression on her face his own relaxes slightly as he sighs in a less antagonistic tone, “Look, sister, I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. And there is nothing I can do to get it back.”

Mother merely sighs, looking at Gamlen with soft eyes, “I don’t expect that, Gamlen. I’m happy knowing that Mother and Father at least didn’t die angry.” She straightens, lifting her chin, “I’ll petition the viscount for the rights to the estate. Maker willing, you can have your ‘house’ back within weeks.”

Gamlen scoffs with a roll of his black eyes, “You don’t have the coin or standing to even get an audience with the viscount! You have to  _ be _ someone in this city to live in that house again.” 

Mother straightens, turning her back to Gamlen like a noblewoman reborn, “Then I better get started.” She doesn’t even walk out to the back room, she strides out of the house with nothing but Father’s will at hand. Gamlen takes one look at Carver and I and stalks out of the room, towards the back room where he sleeps. 

I look at Carver, and he at me, and we both let out matching sighs. 

“Yikes.” I mutter. 

He merely scoffs as he shakes his head and turns away and rubs his shoulder, “I think I may have pulled a muscle in that last fight. I’m gonna rest here for a bit.” Carver stretches his arm, putting his sword down by the fireplace as he walks into the spare room that he, Mother, and I share. I turn to leave the house, setting my staff aside and look to Asfaloth, who was sleeping peacefully in the corner during this whole exchange, but like he sensed my intention he is now wide awake and eagerly wagging his nub of a tail. He paps over to me, panting excitedly with his tail wagging like no tomorrow.

“Come on, boy, let’s go for a walk.” I croon in my baby-voice, to which he barks excitedly, practically barging out of the door once I open it. 

Once outside, walking down the street with Asfaloth at my side, I take out the letter I had kept in my pocket from the Amell estate. It was written by a guy named Tobrius, a friend of my father’s and apparently a mage in the Gallows, it obviously spoke of some other man, Ser Maurevar, who bears significance to Father’s escape in some way. I know it’s dangerous to go nosing in the Gallows, but I wanted to investigate this man, Tobrius. He knew Father before he had the title, maybe even before he met Mother. He talked little about his life in the Circle, just basics and a few horror stories, but they weren’t about Father, just those he knew. This could be an insight into him that I never could've seen otherwise. 

Asfaloth and I walk toward the Gallows, the sight of the chains and golden slave statues giving me shivers. Seriously, they couldn’t have chosen a worse set of decor. 

I have never been inside the Gallows building, no one but mages and templars are, but the public is welcome inside the courtyard of the Gallows. Tranquil make their wares along with some merchants, and mages are typically allowed free movement within this part, except for the huge gates that can be raised or lowered at any time.  _ It really is like a prison,  _ I think with another wet chill up my spine. I spot a mage just inside the gate, leaning on the pillar and looking at the sky. I wonder when was the last time she saw it, as she seems to have more appreciation for it than I do. I approach her and ask in an amicable manner, “Do you know a Tobrius?” I ask as politely as possible. 

Her gray eyes wrinkle at the corners. “Oh, yes, he’s just over there. Old bugger, that.” She replies in a heavy accent, perhaps Ferelden, before pointing across the courtyard to an elderly mage sitting on a bench, reading a book underneath the covered walkway that runs on either side of the forum. I thank her and head his way, Asfaloth panting happily beside me. I give him a few pets and tell him what a good boy he is. 

The man looks up as I approach, and before I can speak or introduce myself he scans my face and rises, his warm, wrinkled expression turning to one of complacency to joy. "I know your face… I am Tobrius. You… you are a Hawke.” 

“The one and only.” I joke with a grin, clearing my throat, “Oh, you mean the family name.”

Tobrius merely smiles, chuckling softly with an air of pensivity, “I remember your father. Malcolm was a good man.”

I raise an eyebrow, shifting to stuff my hands in the pockets of my trousers, “Father must have left quite an impression. This letter I found was ancient.” I pull it out, gesturing to Tobrius’ writing. 

Tobrius nods, his expression turning grim as his blue eyes harden, “I needn’t tell his own child how special he was. As for the letter, it pained me to send him news of the templar’s death.”

I can’t help but blink a tad incredulously, “What? What templar?” 

“He allowed your father to leave Kirkwall.  _ ‘Rule is not served by caging the best of us.’ _ A wise man.” Tobrius elaborates, touching his beard in deep thought as he stares off into the distance. This man’s magical energy was subdued, quiet, barely noticeable except for the fact that if people were rivers, this man was a well, deep and unchanging. 

“He wasn’t very good at being a templar, then.” I jest, crossing my arms. 

Tobrius’s voice warbles as he hums like a great tree, “There was a time when the rules of the Order could be... interpreted to suit a situation. Not like these days.” He sighs, rubbing his temple in a stressed manner as he turns to walk away, his book at hand before he pauses and turns back to me, “I will bring the letters to you. It seems fitting that they return to family.” With that, Tobrius turns and heads inside of the Gallows, to the Circle Tower, and vanishes from sight. 

I turn to Asfaloth, who was sitting beside me politely during our exchange, and rub his head. “Good boy.” I murmur.

I sit on the bench and play with my mabari for a bit, something he is utterly delighted about, before Tobrius returns with a stack of letters at hand. I stand, Asfaloth settling beside me as Tobrius hands me the letters while sighing softly, “Such a friendship. Few like your father remain… and fewer like the templar.” Tobrius sighs happily, looking up at the sky as he closes his eyes, “Rest well at the Maker’s side, Ser Maurevar Carver.” 

Without another word, Tobrius turns and walks back to the Circle Tower. As I stare at the letters, the name Maurevar Carver echoes in my ears. Carver's namesake, a templar? A sympathetic templar no less. I don’t quite know how to take that. But perhaps Carver might. 

I can’t wait, I get up in a hurry and coax Asfaloth to run with me back to Lowtown. I’m eager to leave the golden chains behind and finally give Carver a piece of this puzzle that seems to have been bothering him for some time, of where he fit in Father’s life. 

When I walk in, he’s standing in front of the fire, his arms crossed with a deep frown on his lips. I tease him gently, “Thinking of life in Hightown?” 

“We are far from cowing templars with our titles, Arwen.” Carver chides, standing resolutely to face the fire. I sigh and pinch my brow; I was referencing our hopefully successful trip to the Deep Roads making us rich, but apparently the whole time I’ve been gone he’s been stewing on Mother’s stake to reinstitute the Amell noble line and has found its taste to be sour.

“Couldn’t you slap on a smile for a few days? For Mother’s sake?" I ask with a bit of an exasperated sigh. 

“She’s not interested in what I think. She wants to provide for us, and you’re making sure it happens. And when we’re done, I don’t know, I guess we’ll sit around, thinking about how great we used to be.” Carver turns to face me, scowling deeply even for him, “She didn’t even want that life back until we got dumped here, and you only care because you’re under templar scrutiny.” 

I cross my arms defensively, scowling at Carver in return but I don’t want to lash out just because he’s being an ass. “Alright, then what would you do, Carver? What’s your plan?”

“I’d look forward, make something new. Stop paying debts for old men. And if I had to look backward, I’m not looking for ancient names. I’d go back and fix what’s important, what went wrong.” Carver replies, the stark honesty in his tone reflecting of his blunt attitude. 

I nod in understanding, letting out a soft sigh as I move to stand beside him, “I know, I hear you, but we can’t just go back.” 

My presence closer to him only stokes the slow burning bonfire within Carver, as he immediately whirls on me and spits, “We wouldn’t need to, if you did it right!  _ Lothering _ was our home, not this place! We could have stood our ground!” Carver’s hands clench into fists as words start to tumble from his mouth with wrath and hurt making his eyes shine, “You could’ve stopped that ogre from killing Bethany.” 

I freeze. 

I know deep in my heart of hearts that he’s right. If I was faster, if I was thinking clearly, if I had cast a barrier faster, I could’ve protected her from that beast’s grasp. I know, I  _ know _ , and seeing her listless eyes everytime I close mine, I don’t need Carver to tell me that. 

I hiss with clenched teeth, “You don’t think I know that? Looking back on ‘what-could’ve’s’ doesn’t change that she’s  _ gone _ . Stop hiding behind Bethany to throw her in my face!” I snap, my jaw grit. 

Carver raises his eyebrows, otherwise expressionless and says nothing, merely meeting my gaze. 

It feels like blood is gushing from a stab wound in my gut. I turn away with a deep scowl, my hands shaking as I try to settle how fast my breath just became. “Good talk.” I stamp out bitterly. 

As I move to walk into the spare room, Carver speaks up with a change in tone, softer, tentative, “Arwen?” 

I pause, not giving him the satisfaction of turning all the way around but rather angling my head to look at Carver out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want to face him, I keep faced away so he can’t see how much his words hurt. That’s apparently enough for him as he begins to speak uncertainty, “I feel… I don’t know. It’s like Mother, taking everything out on us. She was just scared.” Carver’s tone had changed; less aggressive, which was saying a lot, and more... contemplative. Hurting. His form of an apology, I suppose. 

I turn slowly back to face him, burying my bitter pain in a frown as he continues uneasily, “I don’t have a place in the life she is trying to bring back.” Carver frowns back at me, and his eyes are so full of life. I remember, suddenly, in that moment at just how  _ young  _ Carver is. He’s eighteen, turning nineteen in a few weeks. He had just become a man when he marched off to Ostagar because he wanted to be a part of something that wasn’t hiding a bunch of apostates. Was I any better when I was his age? It wasn’t  _ that  _ long ago, but… “I'm here if you need me…” Carver murmurs, before he meets my gaze resolutely, “But I must find my own way.” With that, Carver turns and stalks out of Gamlen’s house, heading into Lowtown. 

I sigh heavily, walking into the spare room. Asfaloth trots behind me, whining softly as he noses the back of my knees. I let him into the room before closing it behind me, and sitting down to look at a stack of letters on my bed. I toss my staff onto the floor, and begin to leaf through the letters on my bedside to distract myself from my own self loathing for once. Some are ads, most are ads... One is a letter from Athenril, surprisingly. I raise an eyebrow and rip open the letter. We did not part on good terms, yes, but a few weeks ago she wrote to me, apologizing for pushing Carver and I too far, and saying that if she found work that she couldn’t handle, she’d send it my way. I didn’t believe her, of course, but this letters shows that she actually might be keeping her word.

Inside she introduces a job for a dwarf in Lowtown, who needed help ASAP. I lean over my bed and open a lock box I have stowed beneath the floorboard, and counted the sovereigns I have been storing up. Twenty. Twenty whole sovereigns, I can scarcely believe it. Carver and I would need much more if we are to invest in the Deep Roads expedition, but the job with Aveline and the robbed corpses of the slavers really helped give us a start. Perhaps I would swallow my pride when I was feeling less vulnerable and see her about that later, or just go straight to the dwarf and skip the middle man… 

I opens another letter, only discovering halfway through that I am not the intended recipient. It’s from a girl from Lothering, Peaches, writing to Carver, about me it seems.  _ Maker.  _ I quickly put it back in the envelope and reseal it with some helpful telepathy to not cue Carver in that I read most of it. I remember the girl faintly, she had dainty blond hair always in pig tails all the way up until she got breasts, but other than that I never really interacted with her. She was so quiet, I thought she didn’t like me, but apparently it’s the opposite. 

It’s been a whirlwind since the Blight, getting settled in Kirkwall, always checking over my shoulder, I haven’t even had time to even consider what happened to the people back home, and I especially have not had time to think about romance. Who would want to date an apostate refugee anyway? No one piques my interest anyhow… Not like anyone back at Lothering did anyway. Too dangerous to go trusting someone like that when you’re an apostate. 

I lay back on the bed with my arms behind my head, thinking remorsefully. I’m probably going to die alone, tied up in the Gallows, or after a long life of Tranquil work. That thought chills my bones, but living in Kirkwall it seems like the only likely option. I can’t see a way for my life to end happily, with seven grandchildren and a clan of rich young upstarts who know whats what better than anyone else. Perhaps its for the best. Working for Athenril showed me that I was never exactly suited for a quiet life, with all the death I hand out. But… that doesn’t mean I can’t try to do the same thing for Carver. Or for Mother. Give them the best life they can have and try to be just under annoying enough that they keep me around and just delightful enough that I don’t drive them crazy. 

A few hours later the front door opens and Carver’s heavy boots enter the spare room. He glances at me where I sit on my bed reading letters before walking over to his and taking his boots off, evading eye contact. I feel the stack of letters from Tobrius, what I sought to give to Carver in the first place, weigh heavy in my pocket. Does he even care? Would he even care? … I don’t think it’s my place to decide. He can hate me all he wants, I guess, but I’m still going to love him and make sure he’s happy. Fucking prick. I pull them out, fingering the spines of paper for a moment before I rise and approach Carver’s side of the bed. 

“I got you a little something.” I hand Carver the letters.

He takes them with a scowl, flipping through them to examine their face value before looking up at me with a suspicious frown, “Why?” 

I sigh, moving to sit beside him. “We ended on a tense note. Take it as you will.” 

Carver frowns deeper and unfolds the first letter, the one I found in the Amell estate, starts reading through it before flipping through the rest. After a time, he looks at me with a raised eyebrow, “These are by Father. Are you sure they aren’t meant for you? I bet another mage could get more out of them.”

I shake my head, reading alongside him before pointing out a specific passage. Carver raises an eyebrow at me and begins to read it out loud, “ _ ‘For your services that cannot be admitted, I ask that you accept this trinket and know that I will always respect your name. Thank you, conscience of the Order, Ser Maurivar Carver’ _ … Carver?!” Carver jolts and looks up at me with wide eyes, then back down at the page. 

“The templar who allowed Father to leave Kirkwall… your namesake.” I respond, looking at Carver with even eyes. I can feel that he’s completely shocked by this news, the hair on the back of his neck is standing up. 

“A templar? Have we met a templar that wasn’t a colossal prig?” Carver huffs in response, smirking as he flips through the letters. 

I can’t help it, “Well, there you go then.” I grin cheekily at Carver as he grumbles and smacks me playfully on the shoulder. 

“I wonder what that says about your name, Arwen.” Carver murmurs, reading through the letters with a closer eye than before. 

“Oh, I’m sure someone thought too long and hard on my name.” I counter, shaking my head with a laugh, “Point is,  _ this _ was a swordsman.”

Carver looks down at the letters, his eyebrows knit as he murmurs, “A man who let him look ahead. His name would always mean  _ ‘skill thoughtfully applied’ _ ... Not exactly ‘Master of All Blades’, but…” I snicker a bit at Carver playfully but he doesn't even look in my direction as he cracks a small, secretive smile, “Father actually thought there was worth to a swordsman.” Carver looks up at me hopefully, his eyes warm as he murmurs “Thank you, Arwen. It’s a connection I never thought was there.” 

_ Mission accomplished. _

… 

That night, Varric, Carver and I go to assist Anders in rescuing Karl from the Chantry.  _ Oh boy, this was going to go so bad.  _ We walk down the streets of Hightown, heading toward the Chantry with our eyes glued to the shadows for any signs of people looking for trouble on the darkened streets, as there sometimes tend to be. Problem is we need those maps for the expedition.. and it doesn’t hurt to give the what for to some templars. Just… hopefully not in person. 

Hightown at night is charming, with the stars and moonlight shining onto the cobblestones and golden chains of the city, making them seem more like silvery, celestial ropes adorning the walls. Every once and a while there are some bandits out and about the streets of Kirkwall at night, but in Hightown they’re the worst. Usually it’s people trying to steal from those who have enough to spare that their coinpurse isn’t too missed. Aveline has a lot of headaches with them around, especially when they unite into gangs, and it’s part of why the situation in Lowtown and Darktown are so bad; the nobles in Hightown have the influence to keep the guards protecting  _ them _ rather than helping the people who need guards’ protection in Lowtown.  _ Fucking nobles.  _

As we turn a corner on the block Varric whistles softly behind me, “I don’t know about you two, but the Chantry’s always been a bit of a spectacle. Have any chantries like this back in Ferelden?”

Carver snorts, “No. The Chantry back in Lothering isn’t even as big as these stairs. These stupid stairs…” He swears at the large, marbled stairwell that leads into the Chantry.

The Chantry cathedral in Kirkwall is absolutely enormous, it’s not even the main cathedral of the Chantry in Val Royeaux but it acts like it is, with Andrastian banners on either side and gilded architecture. The house of the Viscount wasn’t even as good looking as the Chantry. 

Staring at the marbles steps as we trudge up, I remember the Chantry in Lothering being simple. It was the biggest building in town, yes - besides the inn - but it was wooden, and homey. I didn’t spend a lot of time there, as where there are Chantry Sisters there were also templars, but it was nothing in comparison to the Chantry in Kirkwall. Five Lothering Chantries could fit inside the Kirkwall Chantry, maybe even six or seven.

I never went to sermons before I came to Kirkwall, even though Mother is rather devout, because of the whole  _ magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him  _ rhetoric is something that enraged Father to hear, and usually came about when rumors of an apostate came fluttering on the breeze. Besides, I never went to the Chantry since coming here anyway, largely because the Chantry Sisters aren’t exactly welcoming to Fereldens, they see someone who might be a refugee and they assume they’re going to rob the place and have the templars throw them out, which…  _ I have some issues with.  _

The breaking point for me in terms of my relationship with Andrastianism is the fact that the Sisters are always asking for alms and sovereigns to help “the poor.” However, there have been no change in the conditions in Lowtown and Darktown, especially with the refugees, and they  _ actively throw out  _ refugees from taking sanctuary in their walls, even though they  _ obviously  _ have the room to give them shelter, or at the very minimum aid them in some manner with food or water. In fact, over the years, the conditions for refugees have gotten worse as the Fereldens and the misplaced all became permanent residents to Kirkwall’s Darktown and Lowtown with simply nowhere else to go. The Chantry collects up money, they preach that  _ magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him _ but turn blind eyes to the human atrocities that happen across the street at the Gallows, all but forcing  _ mages  _ into submission… 

I don’t have a huge opinion on Andraste or the Maker, they either exist or they don’t and if they do I’m sure we’ll have a nice chat in the afterlife on my opinions but the Chantry? Fuck the Chantry. 

Wrapped up in my own thoughts about how fucked up the Chantry is, as we approach the Chantry doors I start when Anders suddenly steps out of the shadows like a spectre and frightens me half to death. He looks very tense, jutting his chin toward the door as he whispers like I didn’t just jump like a finicky horse, “I saw Karl enter just a few minutes ago, I made sure the doors were already open. No sign of templars so far. Are you ready to see this through?” He asks as he turns from eyeing the door to look at me.

I simply sigh and gesture toward the double doors of the Chantry. “Let’s make this quick.”

Anders nods and enters the Chantry, the doors opening with a groan that makes me tense. As we step inside the mage, Karl, is nowhere to be seen. No one can be seen, the whole of the main part of the cathedral appears to be empty. The empty, glittering entry hall leads to the grand alter in the center; there are no pews like the Chantry in Lothering, but golden and scarlet carpets and Andrastian banners hanging from the scrubbed white stone walls. I point toward the second floor, next to the alters, to search for where he had gone there and head in that direction. Anders takes stride beside me, speaking to me in a low voice that still echoes slightly in the massive chamber, “When we get to Karl… just let me do the talking.” He sounds nervous, his voice trembles on saying the man’s name. I wonder, not for the first time, if Karl and Anders aren’t just mage studs being mage buds.  _ I’m totally going to ask about that later… if Anders decides to stick around. Which I kind of hope he does because he seems fun. _

On the second floor, there are several book cases and benches for the Chantry Sisters to study and meditate, as well as any Andrastian who wants to read or sit, I suppose, and it’s there we come across a man with salt and pepper hair standing with his back to us, seeming to be regarding the Chantry symbol on the wall before him. Anders immediately sucks in breath and approaches him with a hurried step and I quickly follow.

“This is just like you, Anders. I know you too well.” I shiver and halt just a few paces from the man. His voice is utterly monotone, as if he’s stating the time rather than a very demonic sounding phrase. I furrow my eyebrows and glance at Anders, who had also stopped and now peers at the man, assumedly Karl, in confusion.

“Karl? I don’t… why are you talking like that?” Anders’ voice trembles as his troubled gaze rakes Karl’s, slowly he moves closer.

Karl turns to face us and we all freeze in place. His expression is neutral, his eyes are listless, and a Chantry symbol is branded into his forehead: the sign of a mage made Tranquil. “I was too rebellious. I had to be made … an example of.” Karl states in the same monotonous tone, staring blankly at Anders’ completely horrified expression. I can’t help but stare at him in horror as well; Ander’s mage friend had been made Tranquil, and now bore the sun symbol of the Chantry on his face as a permanent reminder to him, but most importantly to all. 

“Karl, no!” Anders cries, his eyes fly wide as he takes another step forward toward Karl.

He continues to speak without so much as a pause, “The templars can teach you control, Anders. You need to be leashed.” 

The doors leading further into the Chantry on our left suddenly burst open, and several templars emerge from locations all around us. I shoot a frantic look at Carver, who looks back at me with the same fearful gaze, and in this moment we know that this is not only not going to end well, but it’s going so far south we might end back up with Flemeth in the Wilds. My whole life flashes before my eyes. I never got to say goodbye to Mother. I’ll disappear and Carver will have to tell her what happened… after he gets out of prison.  _ If  _ he gets out of prison. 

This is it. I’m going to be locked up in the Gallows.

“This is the apostate.” Karl points to Anders in the same matter of fact tone with a dead expression as a lifeless toddler. 

Anders begins to shake in anguish as the templars grow closer, drawing their swords. I take a step backwards as they circle, grabbing my staff.  _ What if I just said I’d been paid? They don’t think I’m the apostate, perhaps I can just- _

Anders’ grip on his staff tightens and I nearly get struck when he swings his arms wide in a stature of power, his jaw grit and his eyes like fire.  ** _“NO!”_ ** Anders roars in a rage, before he suddenly bursts into blue flame, curling out of his eyes and emerging through his skin like lightning in his veins, my mind recoils at the power that surges out from him like a tidal wave. I realize immediately that this is the untouchable well I could sense but not feel earlier, something deeper and more powerful than Anders himself, like he has a piece of the Fade inside of him. 

The templars focus all immediately focus on Anders as they stumble back, making noises of shock at the sudden display. Anders’ voice morphs, blue flame licking the wooden floor and encircling him like angry serpents as he roars with the voice of a demon,  ** _“Y o u w i l l n e v e r t a k e a n o t h e r m a g e a s y o u t o o k h i m !”_ **

With a slam of his staff into the ground, the fire leaps like ravenous dogs onto the closest templars, who immediately scream and shriek as it consumes their beings until there is nothing left but their plated armor on the carpet. A templar rushes from the shadows toward Anders only to get cut down by Bianca as Varric leaps to action, followed by Carver leaping to my defense as two more templars rushed our defensive circle. Anders is casting a series of arcane spells against a templar to his left, throwing him against the wall on repeat like a giant with a temper. I encircle Varric and Carver with protective shields and attack any templar that gets too close to my friends, crushing their helms into their heads, or bending their swords in half. 

I have never fought templars before, yet these templars seem to never have fought a mage before. I feel no suppression of my powers like I had with Wesley, yet I wonder if the immense power rushing off of Anders in towering intangible waves is the reason why. Maybe it nullifies the nullification?

A templar rushes me with a snarl, his eyes enraged beneath his metal helmet as he lifts his sword to attack and that’s when I feel it, a push inside my chest, the suppression of a templar on my magic, but meeting it head on is the energy pulsing off of Anders. I fight past the suppression and mentally I send him flying over the ledge and down the stairs where he then lies still. 

When the last of the templars lay dead, I shiver, adrenaline coursing through my veins at how close this encounter was to my last time being a free man again. Carver curses under his breath about how he knew this would happen,  _ why does no one ever listen to me, etc.  _ but he settles when he lays eyes on Anders, whose blue fire has died down as he leaned more heavily on his staff. His hazel eyes blink with more clarity as Karl takes a sudden, deep breath where he is opposite of him. His eyes come to life in an instant, and his expression becomes confused. 

“Anders, what did you do? It’s… it’s like you brought a piece of the Fade into this world!” Karl exclaims in awe, his breath heavy as if he just ran a footrace.

Anders averts his gaze. “It’s… something like that.” He replies enigmatically, taking sudden interest in the carpet as I approach, stepping over the bodies of the dead templars. 

“What  _ was  _ that?” I ask with earnest shock. I immediately go searching through his mind as subtly as I can to find the energy now that it’s receded, and the power is once again completely buried, gone but for a wisp of what it once was. If I didn’t know any better...

“Please, kill me before I forget again!” Karl suddenly exclaims as if he has a dagger to his throat, his voice is on edge and his eyes are wild as he looks to us in desperation with his hands outstretched. “I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading!” 

Anders frowns deeply, his hands curling into fists as horror is stricken across his features, “Karl, no!” 

I bite my lip and run a hand through my hair out of straight leftover anxiety as I regard Karl, the brand on his brow and the desperation in his eyes, glistening with sudden and vibrant emotion like a sunrise. He has this moment of feeling, emotion, after having it stripped away only to have it return immediately... Like the last drop of water in a desert. I feel it, his emotions ebbing slowly away like the tide, and I can’t help but shudder. No matter how hard the life of an apostate be, I would gladly suffer a thousand years of running and hiding to avoid such a fate. To be tranquil is to have everything that made you human stripped from you, and it scares me.  _ It scares me. _

“I would rather die a mage, than live as a templar puppet.” Karl hisses between his teeth, his eyes hard as he looks straight into Anders’ eyes and I get the hint then that they most  _ definitely _ were at some point involved. 

I turn to Anders and see the agony clearly in his eyes. I can feel how he feels this as a personal failure.  _ I was too late, now I’ve lost Karl, and now I have to live with it forever- Curse the damned Templars, this cannot stand…!  _ I can feel the deep well of power stirring within Anders again, yearning to leap free in response to his anguish. This feeling, groping for control- 

I speak and hope I can interrupt his thoughts from the injustice of this moment instead to what can be done. “Anders… If death is what he asks for, then we should give it to him. Please, let us help him.” I murmur this in a soft tone, gentle because I know what I am asking of him to decide. Anders’ expression tells me he knows the decision is his, and he’s willing to bear it. “I can do it if-”

Mutely Anders shakes his head, “No… he’s my friend.” 

I nod respectfully and take a step back to give them space, Carver and Varric mimicking my movement in doing so. 

Anders turns to Karl with sorrow spelled across his features as he steps towards his friend, “I got here too late… I am sorry, Karl. I am so sorry…” Agony spells across Anders’ gaze, and I see his knuckles are white at his sides. 

“Hurry! Now, it’s fading…!” Karl’s stature suddenly changes, standing perfectly straight with the light in his eyes dying out like a lantern light being snuffed. It’s like staring into a well as he peers at Anders with what can be described as mild disinterest instead of wild desperation, “Why do you look at me that way?” 

My stomach turns over. I saw him as he once was, feeling, true and human, only to see him like… this. Maker, my hands are shaking so hard I have to grip my staff with all my concentration to get them to stop. Varric beside me clips Bianca onto his back and looks up at me with a glance of mild worry, and I realize I must be visibly shaking. I quickly tried to bury how terrified I am of this moment, this future that I thought was about to be my present if Anders hadn’t incinerated half of those templars.

Anders slowly pulls a knife from his belt as he approaches Karl, his expression full of pain as he whispers, just loud enough for me to hear. “Goodbye.” Anders whispers like a prayer, looking into Karl’s eyes with heartache before he thrusts the knife into Karl’s chest. He staggers, choking on blood before he falls to the floor, spasming before his blood spills and soaks into the floors already slicked with the blood of templars. 

Anders turns away, leaving the knife imbedded in Karl’s chest with a carefully crafted neutral expression as he states in a quieter tone, one I can feel full of emotion and pain, “We should leave before more templars come.” He heads back down the stairs of the Chantry without another word or glance in our direction. 

I glance at Carver briefly to see his surprisingly retreated expression. He’s staring at Karl, his expression transfixed, before he notices my looking and turns back to me, stating icily, “Let’s move.” 

We leave the Chantry as quick as we dare without looking suspicious. Luckily, no one is about this time of night. Anders practically vanishes into Darktown, I don’t see him once we are on the walkway out of Hightown, but I figure now isn’t the time to go asking him for his maps anyway. I resolve to give it until tomorrow to collect the maps as Carver and I return home. 

As we’re passing the Hanged Man, Varric moves to part ways with us but not before he grabs my wrist and pulls my gaze down to his. I lean down a bit as he speaks to me in a hushed, personal “Don’t think about it too hard, Hawke. Not tonight. Not without a drink in your hand.” 

Of course, I completely ignored his advice and watched the sun come up the next morning because I was so wrapped in my own thought and fears.

… 

The next afternoon, after I finally got the chance to get some sleep, I woke up because Asfaloth is trying to knock me off the bed, his big paws pushing on my side even though I feel I’m already on the edge of the bed. I push him back a bit to move him, grumbling, “You damn bed hog…” 

He merely pants happily, however, and then snores. 

I can’t fall back asleep after that, so I decide now is the time to pay Anders a visit and retrieve the maps he promised. I didn't want to press for them last night, especially because of the whole thing with Karl. I wanted to give him some time to digest that he just just fulfilled the last request of someone who mattered to him and I of all people know what  _ that’s _ like. 

But I still remember that weird thing that Anders did. Getting all glowy and spouting blue fire everywhere and speaking with a voice that wasn’t his. It hadn’t been on my list of priorities to think about until I’d properly gotten over that I almost got caught by templars last night, but now that I think I have, at least as much as I’m going to for the moment, I have a hundred questions. The thousand, echoing voices speaking from his throat, the blue fire and smoke… Pretty badass, but also terrifying, and signs of something magically fucky. Now that I’m headed to Darktown, it all comes rushing back to me. What the fuck even  _ was  _ that? I hear his morphed voice in my head,  _ ‘You’ll never take another mage as you took him’.  _ I have never met a demon before, but that… that was very much what I would think a demon would sound like. 

In summary, I have questions, Anders has answers, and the maps, and I’m going to go get them. 

When I reach Anders’ clinic in Darktown, the lamp outside swings ominously as an elderly Ferelden couple pushes open the doors. They make suspicious eyes at me as they hustle down the sewer paths when I brushed by them, walking into the clinic without sparing them a second glance. Anders is alone, standing by his patient table and wiping it clean with a dirty rag.

“Hey Anders.” I hum, catching his attention. 

He looks up at me and sets down the rag, instead resting his hands on his waist. “I was wondering if you’d be coming back. I figured you would’ve run off.” He answers, moving around the table to approach me. 

I close the door of the clinic behind me before I turn to face him. “I know it’s probably none of my business,” I begin, getting straight to the point as Anders eyes me apprehensively, “But that magic you did last night… That wasn’t normal.”  _ Shit,  _ I tense suddenly,  _ try to sound like you don’t know anything, about magic, you idiot!  _ “... Was it?” I couple it by putting on my best  _ I am obviously not an apostate _ look, but I can feel that I’m kind of failing. And frankly, I’m trying all that hard. Anders would be the last person to rat me out - like,  _ literally  _ the last person, I’d suspect Carver before I’d suspect Anders - but still. It’s mostly habit, especially since I’ve been using my magic so subtly my whole life until just about recently I’ve been using it to stay alive. _ Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst idea if someone else, especially another apostate, knew about me.  _

Anders shifts a little uncomfortably, averting his gaze to the floor, “I… this is hard to explain…” He bites his lip in contemplation, his hands resting at his sides, “... When I was in Amaranthine, I met a Spirit of Justice that was trapped outside of the Fade.” He slowly lifts his gaze a little, and it seems like it was pinned onto my tunic, “We became friends. And he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas face everyday.”

I can’t help but narrow my eyes, “And that’s… different from a demon?” I ask suspiciously, even more so when Anders refuses to meet my eyes.

Anders seems to realize this, however, and finally met my gaze and his expression is soft, almost apologetic, “Just as demons prey on the deadly sins of mankind, there are good spirits who embody our virtues. Spirits of compassion, fortitude… justice.” Anders sighs a little under his breath, “They are the Maker’s first children, and they have all but given up on us.”

I truly and honestly can’t help the incredulous tone that slips into my voice, “So, what does that have to do with your eyes glowing?” 

Anders is visibly uncomfortable, yet his gaze remains firm on mine. I’m actually a startled at how… raw Anders’ gaze is. I figure he must have been truly hurt by what happened to Karl for his demeanor to be so… distant. “To live outside the Fade, he needed a host.” Anders’ voice morphs, becoming more and more firm with each word he murmurs, “And I offered to help him. We were going to work together, to bring justice to every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the Circle. But…” Anders subsides, his demeanor is much like that of the tide of the ocean as it ebbs and flows, “I guess I had too much anger. Once he was inside of me, he… changed.”

_ Well that sounds like something Father told me once. _ “So, sorry, but, let me get this straight… you have this spirit of Justice living in your head?” I clarify, my head tilted in curiosity with a gesture to my own temple. I had learned from Father about spirits, but mostly about demons and how to avoid temptation. He was brief in describing how not every spirit is a demon, but  _ ‘most are, and that’s all you need to worry about.’ _ This is apparently a gap in my education and that makes me apprehensive to say the least.

“It’s not like that.” Anders quickly answers with surprising patience, speaking animately with his hands, “He’s gone now… but he’s a part of me. It’s not like we can… have a conversation. I feel his thoughts as my own.” He turns his gaze to the door behind me, before he refixes his gaze back onto my face, “Not even the greatest scholar could tell you where I end and he begins.” 

_ Anders is on edge. Does he worry someone will find him here?  _ Glancing at him again I can see his apprehension and when my magic briefly brushes his thoughts I realize it’s because of the subject of Justice.  _ I think… maybe he’s worried because of the conversation we are having. _ I wonder if he has ever told anybody about Justice, or if anyone had ever seen the spirit come out like I had.

“This must be difficult for you.” I offer softly, looking at him in what I hope to be a gentle fashion, so he sees me as an amicable confident and hopefully not blow my face up and then give me those maps.

“I thought I was helping my friend.” Anders continues, his expression somewhat grateful, “He could have… died, I guess. If that even means anything to a spirit. And he wanted to help me. He knew what mages have suffered.” Anders clams up a bit, his brows furrowing, “But my  _ anger… _ when I see templars now, things that have always outraged me, but could do nothing about… He comes out, and he is no longer my friend Justice. He is a force of Vengeance, and he has no grasp for mercy.” 

I shiver, watching Anders’ expression of helplessness but recognition. He just… accepts this is his forever reality, I can see it, and it honestly makes my heart ache and my problem-solving desires to burst free from it.

“Can Justice ever be separated from you?” I ask, seeking a way to help. 

Anders seems to appreciate this, as he gives me a slight smile when he murmurs, “I don’t think so. The only way a spirit has ever been separated from a living host is by its death.” Anders sweeps his hands, shaking his head afterwards, “The curse is of my own making. All I can do now is hope I can control it.” 

_ Well, that’s reassuring. _

“Can you bring him out at will?”  _ Can you control him _ is what I  _ want _ to ask, but I don’t want to be too on the nose about it. 

Anders doesn’t seem to catch on this, thankfully, as he answers me with a helpful tone, “No. He comes only when I’ve lost _ all  _ power over myself.” Anders shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts, seeming disturbed, “It’s a madness, a frenzy. I only find out after what I might have done.” 

I feel my heart reach out to this man before me as he bares his soul. The vulnerability is difficult for him, it’s why he can’t look at me for too long I can tell. I can’t help it but… all I can think of is that Bethany would’ve done something as stupid as befriending a ‘nice’ spirit and try to help it. All she ever did was try to help others… 

“Is there anything I can do to help you?” I settle on asking, looking at Anders with a gentle gaze. 

With a slight half smile Anders lets out a soft breath, like he just dropped something very heavy. “You’re the first one I’ve ever told this.” He replies softly, his eyes are soft and warm in the low lantern light, “Thank you for not running away.” He seems resolved, and suddenly straightening after a moment, “My maps are yours. As am I, if you wish for me to join your expedition.” 

Now this surprises me, as I remember him saying how much he detested the Deep Roads. “I thought I was done with the Grey Wardens,” Anders continues, I think his resolute gaze much have seen my surprise at his offer. “So if you have need of me… I will be waiting here.”

“That’s… thank you. I appreciate your help, Anders, though I have to say I’m a little shocked you want to come.” I respond with a snort, I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.

“I had a friend like you, once.” Anders answers, suddenly smirking, “Got in all sorts of trouble, dragged me along. Didn’t think I’d be doing that again.” At the drop of the hat he stops smirking and gazes me an apologetic look, “Things got a bit weighty. Sorry for putting that on you.”

I brush it off with a chuckle, “No problem, Anders, you can tell me anything.”

“Anything?” He asks with an amused grin, his eyebrows raised, “Be careful what you offer.” He pauses and grows introspective, his gaze passing to the side, “I just… hope I’m not being selfish when I tell you about Justice. I… I didn’t know what would happen. I figured a willing host, a friend… it had to be better than playing the demon and haunting some corpse.”

“Well, we all make mistakes, and mistakes are better when your actions came from a true heart.” I offer kindly with an offhanded gesture to the side. 

Anders gives me an intrigued look and a soft chuckle, “Well, under that scruffy exterior, I think you’ve got a bit of a soft heart yourself.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and I watch as he suddenly take a mental step back and clears his throat, “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t presume. I just… we’ve hardly met and I feel like I know you.” 

And just like that I get slammed with realization of the nature of Anders’ words. My palms almost instantaneously become sweaty. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Anders asks politely, looking at me with a genuinely curious gaze, yet also a bit apprehensive. 

_ Is he… flirting with me right now? Maker’s balls, I’m glad Carver and Varric aren’t here, otherwise I’d never hear the end of it. _

Truth be told… Anders is quite nice. It’s kind of a relief to meet an apostate outside of my family, for once - though I don’t count Flemeth. She’s as much of an apostate as a dragon is a lizard. But I don’t know how I feel about him in that manner yet. But that aside it’s… weird for someone to be interested in me like that. Weirdly nice.  _ Super  _ not something I’m used to.  _ I’ll try to play it off,  _ I think to myself confidently,  _ neither confirm nor deny. _ I ramp up my snark and plaster a smirk, “Well, that doesn’t mean I want you to stop.” Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth my inner monologue strats yelling at me,  _ that did not sound like playing it off, Arwen, what the fresh fuck was that, what the hell, you sound as smooth as sandpaper.  _

Anders raises an eyebrow, and seems to size me up with his eyes, re-evaluating. For what, I’ve no clue; the mental read I’m getting off of him is a bit jumbled and I’m positive it’s because I’m an idiot.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He responds after a brief pause, I think his tone is coy, but his expression and demeanor shifts too fast for me to really analyze it. “Growing up in the Circle, everything is about order, and rules, and the templars. The apprentices… we found ways to make that bearable. Karl and I… he was the first-” I internally congratulate myself on smelling out how Anders and Karl were  _ totally _ more than just friends, “-We could forget that out in the world we were nothing but templar slaves.”  _ Slaves? Is that how he sees mages in the Circle? _

That makes me so badly want to ask him more about his experience in the Circle. Father never said the Circle was the best place, no, but he never equivocated it to  _ slavery _ . “We... We hadn’t been together for a long time.” Anders winces, his gaze fogged and far away, “But still… it hurt.”

I immediately nod sympathetically, “No one should have to go through that.” 

Anders’ nostrils flare, and his gaze grows fiery and intense. “It’s the  _ bloody templars.”  _ He spits the words out before he throws a hand in my direction,  _ “You  _ know how it is.” 

_ Oh shit. So he  _ ** _does_ ** _ know I’m a mage. Well, that’s over and done with, I guess, but I wonder what it was that tipped him off.  _ “They don’t see us as  _ people.” _ Anders continues, hissing between his teeth like a cobra, “They don’t care that Karl was someone’s son… someone’s lover.” Anders’ words continued to spit out into a flood, and I can feel inside of him the well of magical energy stirring, “If you’re born with magic, they hear about it. They search your little rat-spit village and find you. They tell your parents that they’ll be thrown in prison if they ever ask about you, stripped of their  _ rights  _ in the eyes of the  _ Maker.” _ Anders’ eyes began to glow and the reservoir inside of him bursts briefly, blue, smoky cracks echo across his skin, “And if you run, they hunt you down. Again, and again, and again.”

Anders is spiraling. I must be the first person to ever actually listen to him when he talks about what he experienced under the templars, because this is built up anger sustained over time like an old wound left untreated. That hurts to think about, and I wonder how he could have suffered alone all this time to trust me with this raw vulnerability so quickly. 

I reach out and gently place a hand on his shoulder. Almost immediately the blue light vanishes and Anders meets my gaze with wide, hazel eyes, I can see that he wonders if he’d overstepped a line. I try to ease him a little. “You’re speaking from personal experience.” I murmur, not a question, even rhetorical.

Anders nods, his eyebrows furrowing as I watch him attempt to contain his overwhelming rage. “Andraste’s words were that magic must not rule over man. It is not  _ ruling _ to wish to have the same rights as any other man!” He eyes me suddenly and his expression morphs to the texture of granite, “Doesn’t every mage deserve the freedom that  _ you’ve  _ had?” 

I baulk and stare at him, pulling my hand away from his shoulder. “What could you possibly know about any freedom that  _ I  _ had?” I state harshly, crossing my arms defensively.

Anders presses on rather fiercely, “I can see it. You’ve never been in a Circle, your magic is subtle, meant to go unnoticed. I can tell, I saw you casting last night.” He gazes at my staff strapped to my back before he meets my gaze once more. “And I’ve heard about you. Didn’t connect it until now, after last night, through whispers in the underground. You worked for Athenril, you were her favorite lackey.” I can’t help but bristle a little at that turn of phrase, _favorite lackey. _Like she owned me. “It’s a blessing that the templars never found you in the ass-end of nowhere in Ferelden.”

I furrow my eyebrows at Anders, hurt I take a threatening step towards him, “Listen, Anders, I never said that I disagree with you, but you’re making a lot of assumptions about my life when I’ve made none about yours. Don’t insist on an argument with me when there’s none to be had.” I state in a low voice at him. 

He must have realized only just now at how his tone must have sounded, as he regards me with a fresh gaze. He seems to mentally retreat, and gives me an apologetic look. “You’re… right. I suppose… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have presumed.”

I brush it off quickly, shoving my frustration down as far as it can go until I can fake a lackadaisical grin, “Water under the bridge. Don’t worry about it. Hang out with us sometime at the Hanged Man and I’m sure after a few drinks you can glean all the information you want about my tragic apostate backstory. Just ask Carver about the embarrassing ones, I’m sure he’s got plenty.” 

Anders continues to stare at me, rather uncomfortably so for a few long moments before he remembers what I came here for and excuses himself to retrieve the maps. He returns a few seconds later with them, and thanks me once more for being there for him as I excused myself to leave Darktown. Once his clinic is out of sight, I let out a pent up, frustrated breath. 

_ That was not how I wanted to bond with another apostate.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah let's fuckin go I finally finished editing this GOLIATH of a chapter, jesus CHRIST   
Chapter 5, recruiting Captain Isabella and Merrill, coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here's to the first half of the prologue before Act 1, who's fucking ready??? I am. I'm fucking ready.  
I started writing this in 2017, posting it on Wattpad, and then stopped as my hyperfixations shifted until someone commented on the story, asking for more to be written; it made me realize "oh damn that's right i love this story i think I will keep writing it" and here we are. I'm going through and editing what I have so far and posting it here once they are completed and updating the original posting because my writing's changed a bit since 2017 :0)  
If you like the story leave a kudos, comment and tell me what you like and what you want to see more of!


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